Sitting here, waiting for a clearing breeze ,
in my forest of endless trees,
It never came, the restless surge,
from deep within, the stormy siege
that blows the top off Carpe Diem.
A cup of tea and a magazine,
the traces of her lemon scent,
that rises aromatically.
I never thought to look for that,
Within my maze of discontent,
A kind of serendipity.
The little things, that’s what I meant
Like the traces of her lemon scent.