Most mornings she stands at her window
and watches him leave. He trudges
over crisp grass, his joints creek

like storm door hinges. Wind rasps
against her windowpane, through his lungs,
and rattles the branches like dry bones.
He turns to find her: wildflowers

pressed under glass. White florets strung
around her pale neck; fragile lips curled
at corners, almost in time with his wink.