The jasmine on the second-floor sill waits until the last teacup is dry. Then the blossoms lean toward the open pane and collect leftover sighs, one at a time, as if each were a ticket to a concert no one has to dress for.
We asked at the kiosk. The woman selling evening papers said a neighbor had stood in the yard just to listen. He did not catch a tune, she added, only a sweetness that made him forget which page he was on.
A notebook on the ledge kept the thanks. One line from the gardener: they always give the air back. Another: please do not slam the sash, the encore is still in the curtain. By sunrise the flowers had nodded, and the street smelled as if someone had folded the night neatly and left it on the latch.