Mosquitos drink your nectar,

then slumber in the shadows.

You have sweet blood.

I too know the sweetness

of your nature. The brush

of your hand on my tousled head,

your warm fingers,

fixing the collar of my coat,

as we make our entrance

into the sunlight.

I think of these things

as I watch an old woman in the street.

She is clutching a large vase of flowers.

The air is humid, sticky.

Oppressive.

Mosquito weather.

The red flower heads brush her cheeks.

She is smiling into the middle distance.

A smile redolent of memory,

for herself alone,

but flooding the heart of a stranger

with the sweet blood of love.