You drift to me on the taunting wind
Like distant strains of a mandolin
Or the comforting chatters of a brook
Vaguely recalled from a winter nook
You graze the surface of my skin
Like the soundless breath of a butterfly’s wing
The ghost of a smile in the pale moonlight
Flickers and fades beyond my sight
The brush of your finger-tips, a restless sigh
That escapes from my lips as you pass by
And all that remains for me to see
Is the wind as it tosses the willow-tree
All Rights Reserved
Janet Martin
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