Siren Song

I come in from the garden attempting to curb weeds see you through the open window nude bathwater still clinging to your skin combing the flames of your long wet hair as if you were a siren in a famous painting that just happened to be hanging there in mid-air singing to yourself. You always had this habit of becoming art where ever you were whatever you did. My own private gallery that no millionaire could afford. I approached your singing enchanted my heart tied to the mast. You looked up and smiled 'Hello, love! ' My heart leapt overboard and swam to you drowning with love.