Last night

Last night I heard a whisper
at my window—
a small child
a little girl,
or so I thought
the night-still
my window ajar
to let in the night breeze
the light of the moon
a shooting star,
or perhaps that wasn’t real
confused
lost in my dreams—
I saw a little girl,
flowing dress
hair in pigtails
lovely—
like a painting
a Botticelli—
angelic
too beautiful to be real
I knew this girl
I was sure,
I’d seen her somewhere before
I called her
not by name—
for that I didn’t know
she looked at me,
I looked at her
she continued by