In the morning
the glamour will spill like milk and your eyes will trail the sunrise from cellar to hearth
where you’ve been forged, delicate as glass, firm as stone
Ash in the wind
You aren’t lost on me

I come late in the evening
after chasing harlots
only to find your home fires yet burning
Lady of the house, soft spoken in the marvelous glow of simmering heat
You aren’t lost on me

The delicacy of your lips and the pull of your eyes
fixated and fixed upon me, like a portrait of the Virgin, her arms outstretched
and I know

The caress of your words and the insistence of your silence
brings me in from wandering, like a mother’s call in the dusk of life, still,
and I know

I am not lost on you

Ash in the wind
free to drift