Would he every come along
intune, as it were, to her heart’s song?
Will poetry be written
by he, of her heart, surely smitten?
She stands quietly
on the edges of hope
forlorn of love to one again meet
Would beauty be seen
in eyes, still fresh, from lasting sorrows?
Would he look beyond
wintered years, seeing new tomorrows?
By day she dreams
with poetic musings
penned wishes petitioning love to greet
All Rights Reserved by Debra Squyres 3/10/13