Michelle Smith

An open window

Has me to daydream of you.
My heart is worn on my sleeve.
The glass pane square
lifted from my hands, arms, and shoulders,
I crave for us to meet:
your frontal body naked
pressed onto my sagittal plane.
You the seething iron
I the wax paper.
Our crafting is the middle pansy flower
melting into yellow and purple blooms.
Awakening breezes
fresh and airy
coolness to fuel all of me
from the steamy mist of those iron holes.
Not to be shaken or stirred,
the daydream escapes as the window closes slowly.
My heart is worn elsewhere.




Bubbles on my saucer

And a cup of Joe
Clouds in my coffee
The scent and steam
flows through an open window.