Each Morning, the Musician Stops for Coffee

I feel her gaze on the nape of my neck
as I carry my crème
to a table near the window

that looks out on the lilac,
its branches bare yet
swelling below the surface.

Her eyes are dark, her hair
like a folded wing of night.
Her voice is a music,

yet so low I can barely hear.
She speaks to me
only to make my change.