Apple On The Sill

My window at night
fills itself with breeze.
A halved apple remembers its old love,
and the white blossoms thick on the trees.

Over the graveyard, the tile roofs, the fields,
come the reaper, the mother, the breeze.
It is late, the ghosts sing madrigals
for the priest in the church on his knees.

My window at night
fills itself with breeze
in the form of black plumed horses
saying, "Come, flor blanca, please."
_______

for this, in honor of the Day of the Dead, and Federico Garcia Lorca