love, the maple tree and your 2nd storey window

he is sleepless at dusk

walking home, feet lighter

than yesterday under the last light,

street lamps hum before they

click on and glow orange dusk

particles which he stirs with his

passage through their pools.

from an open window, her voice leaps

and catching itself on the branches of

the maple tree at her sill, it slides down

with ease – a singing voice,

not perfect but sweet enough

to turn his eyes up

and drink in her showering silhouette,

the running water a drum while

she sings “here comes the sun, doo n’ doo doo,

here comes the sun”

he leans into her light,

open-mouthed and floats upward,

toes lifting from the pavement, he

reaches limply for the maple tree

and the leaves graze his fingertips

as he passes over the canopy

and disappears.