ThinkstockPhotos-614125152.jpgShe sits, a flower,
First-unnoticed ,
Then daffodil-like, pure yellow,
Waiting,
Always waiting.
Beautiful in her imitation of
Springtime.

A quiet smile.

Sometimes tender, fragile,
Blushing tiny rose, or
Often green with bright-colored tangerine petals.

Her blues most striking, a new meaning to the colors,
Cyan, cobalt, teal.
Even steely grey under her charge
Given new presence.

If he were alive,
And she were wed-able,
He would hope
So grandly
To capture her bouquet each day,
Take it on a calliope ride to Arda
Stay for High Tea in the Middle Earth,
Invent a dozen new words,
And be home before dark
To ready tomorrow’s color.

Alas, He never comes,
It’s not allowed.

So

She reads and reads again
Every word, then two, three, then a sentence, paragraph, epic stanza.
The magic in his kingdom,
Hers, this hold on happiness
High fantasy never higher.
This is her heaven.

She favors his genius.

It brings him joy,
that she, like no other,
Knows
His real thoughts,
Thinks him not foolhardy
Looking for lost things,
Cavalier as any troubadour.

He sighs, asks again and again
To no avail,
To be reborn in her life where
She will always be dressed in periwinkle,
Wearing a color called
Waiting.

 

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville,Virginia
June 30, 2018