Her way with my dreams

The wind stirs the tangle of her tresses where she stands.

She stoops and gathers in rose-pale hands

A myriad grains of the drifting sands.

Musing, she sifts them through fingers slim:

The wind whirls them seaward, a current dim.

They are soon forgotten, as any whim.

She gathered my dreams as the drifting sands,

Gently, as one who understands:

She scattered them with rose-white hands.