She has the wind in her hair, winter, spring
summer, fall. The wind sings her name. Her
name is on the tip of the tongue. She is light.
She is a shadow in the back of the mind. She’ll
do anything for you for a song. She doesn’t
want to sing at karaoke, she wants to dance.
Her eyes are pools of water, hot-blooded
men tell her. She blushes and offers a wave.
She lives just down the street from everyone.
Older couples like to talk about her over coffee.
She is the salt of the earth, golden shafts of wheat
waving in wind. She walks her dog, and it sits
in front of you, wagging its tail. Doves circle
above her head. She gives me a book, and I read
between the lines. I hold her hand.