When I opened the door today for Astrid I was taken aback not only by her very English accent but also by her quiet elegance. It struck me that here was a lady and that I was back in that century when the word “lady” was not seen as an insult or a deprecative and sexist epithet.

After taking one single photograph I thought of a poem by my fave American doctor/poet.

William Carlos Williams, "Portrait of a Lady" (first published in the Dial, August 1920)

Your thighs are appletrees

whose blossoms touch the sky.

Which sky? The sky

where Watteau hung a lady's

slipper. Your knees

are a southern breeze -- or

a gust of snow. Agh! what

sort of man was Fragonard?

-- As if that answered

anything. -- Ah, yes. Below

the knees, since the tune

drops that way, it is

one of those white summer days,

the tall grass of your ankles

flickers upon the shore --

Which shore? --

the sand clings to my lips --

Which shore?

Agh, petals maybe. How

should I know?

Which shore? Which shore?

-- the petals from some hidden

appletree -- Which shore?

I said petals from an appletree.