meanderings

the edge of the lake
is the round rim of my eye

your hem
is clutched in my hand
my fingers are tightly wound within the cloth

the ripples of the lake
are liken to the thoughts of my mind

your ponderings
are like scents of perfume that
tantalize my nostrils

the feathers of a small bird
are the tickle under my nose

the rays of the sun
are the specs of diamonds in your eyes

 your voice is liken to the choir of angels
that sing in church at christmas time

I watch you sit on the wooden park bench
your red hair snugly tucked beneath your
coat collar.

A knitted green beret sits joyfully lopsided
atop your head.

The wind comes and you cross the arms of
your tweed coat in front of you.

Black leather gloves shape your hands
and  you clutch an oversized print bag
that holds your possessions of the day.