She sits inside, behind venetian blinds;
windows opened, slats ajar to catch the breeze.
Lace curtains flap and wave into the room;
the faintest scent of jasmine rushes in.
She’s drinking chilled Chablis and listening
to Willie singing on the radio
about those blue eyes crying in the rain.
Her gaze is focused on the passion vine
that blooms along the picket fence outside,
it’s tendrils wrapped about it for support.
Then all at once a hummingbird appears
and hovers near a purple passion bud.
She fills her crystal glass with more Chablis,
turns on the ceiling fan and shuts the blinds.