Windowside

Specks of wonder
in sunlight gathered, thrown
as best one can-
they go
Out, I think, to you.
Breaths they hurry on
like thoughts they manifest
and are weighted and float
softly there, longing and being
caught, clustered,
raked in as gold, bundled
and serene in strange
hands that I think are yours,
is it you?
I think it is.
Or, it pleases me to think so. Yes.