A Pale Maid
"this poem is not about what is written,
but what is not written. . . "
A
pale maid
in front of
a lone bare tree
stands looking at me.
She seems so beautiful.
Nature loves her; butterflies
surround her, dancing in her hair.
Staring at her there, I try to read
those soulful eyes gazing back at my own.
What secret could this solitary lass
be silently expressing to me?
Is she smiling? I can’t be sure.
She is lovely but demure.
Leaves from the stripped tree flit
with the butterflies.
The answers must
lie in front
of my
eyes.
July 2, 2011 for Contest: "The Unwritten"
A Double Etheree Inspired by and Dedicated to
Constance La France ~ A Rambling Poet ~
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