For Roman Polanski

o Pan's flute! you call to me
in the middle
of the nineteenth century
I am so happy
familiar, comfortable
things: a straw hat
on a round table, a white
dress on a chair, the mirror
you gave me on the dresser, its frame engraved
and a bouquet of flowers
the wind
stirs the curtains, brings up the fragrance
of fresh cut grass, what a remarkable
morning
make love
in fields of heather!
light purple
clusters of heather, dark
sharp heather honey, my head
spinning
my bright
encapsulated world
***
these three girls, possibly sisters
out for a walk
on Sunday
their whispers
fade
down rustling lanes, their secrets
and laughter
eyelids trembling
like butterfly
wings
he
a few steps behind
with hat in hand
with a quiet
all knowing
all fixing gaze
that's how you read even
the deepest secrets in my heart
***
there is still
one more happy awakening after
the sun has risen: the apple
on the warm white windowsill
that someone's hand put down
as I slept (just as it did for my young
mother, long ago, in that distant
house): juicy and fragrant
o summer, o dream!