A Haunting

The hot, dry air has gotten restless. It is blowing about the room,

looking for your sundress.

The smell of sage wafts onto the tabletop,

coquettish and pervasive.

I am rooted in the shade of that summer willow,

its river-touched branches dancing and woven with my heart—

Don't you notice how you tug on it,

playing as they do in Pieria?

What lovely phantoms these memories are,

echoing the unending sweetness I saw in your eyes.