TRUTH -- poem for wednesday

She smelt the country.
I heard her say she liked it.

Once from an upstairs window,
she surveyed her being:

there were lilacs, she said.
It was May, sort of Summer
with it's mouth opening
about to speak. And there was
a little sun, and the radio
barking like a poor man.
But we were deaf for the present;

and just for that moment,
as I saw her, she believed
exactly what her eyes told her.

By Alex