The Girl in the Green Dress
The girl in the green dress came
sweeping around my porch today.
With a broom of broken sunlight
and branches she swept the shade away;
with a southern disposition
and a halo of yellow light
she chased away the morning breeze
and the coolness left by the night.
She wished only to be where she was;
she wished only to be sweeping.
She did not know the night’s abyss,
or understand the voice of weeping.
She did not know the full moon,
or the sudden swoop of the owl.
She did not know the loneliness
of the coyote’s mournful howl.
Bare legged, in a green dress,
with sandals on her feet,
she swept around my porch and left
only the sun’s brilliant heat.
She took the morning with her,
and left only the afternoon’s glare.
I’ll miss the brightness of her eyes
and the wave of her short brown hair.
I’ll miss the way she smiled at me
without having anything to say,
but, most of all, I’ll miss the coolness
of the shade she swept away.