Plume et parchemin

A young woman stands alone,
Among flowering trees in a garden.
Sunny, with a soft warm breeze,
And birds singing in the trees.
A scene of serenity and peace.

You watch her from a distance,
In your clean cut black suit,
With your body leaning against a tree.
And, your eyes are fixated on her form.
Yet, you dare not approach.

Why not walk up to her?
Talk to her, get to know her,
What stops you?
What is it that holds you back?
Is it uncertainties within you?

She walks and sits on a garden bench,
Reading a book of romance,
Sunshine falls upon her golden form,
A painting of divinity,
Etched right before your eyes.

Yet, you’re rooted in place,
Nervously twisting your riding gloves in your hands,
Your mare nudges you at your back,
To move forward.
But, you stumble and only regain your firm ground.

She looks up from her book,
And happens to spot you by the brook.
Both sets of eyes lock.
Silence fills the air,
Except for the burbling of the brook.

You take a step forward,
She holds her breath, a smile on her face.
But, you stop and go no further.
Her smile starts to fade,
And she looks at you questioningly.

You express your apologies to her with your eyes,
If you had it your way,
You would sweep her off her feet.
But, such matters are out of your hands,
To your utter despair.

You bow to her courteously,
You start to back away from her,
The sweet future Mrs H. Whittington,
Tears are in both sets of eyes, as you mount,
And turn your mare towards the sunset.

(by Hitokiri Ayame)