Wednesday, August 27, 2008


The breeze brushed its cold fingers across one's senses
With just the right touch of course -
A barest hint of tenderness within icy strictness
Instead of deadening dreams, a wakening.

Off with those sandals
Upon the table as naughty vandals
Yet sit - not perch - with a graceful air
As the weaving of dreams caresses fine hair.

Demurely folded hands upon a lap
Feet tucked neatly beneath her chair
(Chair, did I say, table I mean!)
In imitation of a lady fair.

Umbrellas parade the street ahead disguised
As colourful flowers spreading their petals
Behind, the lush green trees of a miniature forest
Whispered unknown secrets

Rain, wash away this empty longing
Wind, guide every strand of hair where you would
Mist, envelop those wistful musings
Of a young maiden approaching eighteen winters.

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