Come, you are the soft wind of September, hanging your hair over the vineyard while church bells echo in the arch of your back. Grapes glisten at your feet and soon their blood skin will be crushed into wine. Your late lover rests in the gatehouse waiting for your hand to press breath from his lungs, memory from his sleep. He lies naked, washed-over by light and billowing drapes. Your scent moistens the windowsill while a small bird takes wing. Leaves rustle, her shadow bridging the wall’s cracked stone.