A marvelous girl with black hair held a silver flute
between her long fingers.
She was playing a song about winter.
A bird landed on the tip of her flute as if it were a branch,
the falling dust of snow concealing it.
I know it was there because it sang as the girl played,
the girl swaying in a light breeze, her slim waist wrapped
in a flower print skirt of ageless cherry blossoms.
I stood as the song ended applauding wildly.
A hand touched my arm.
Dear, we have to go. My wife and I walked from the Center arm in arm,
wilting slightly as we were greeted by summer heat.
