It was at a Bakery, a French one by claim,
Where I saw Her.
Standing there I didn’t even know her name
and yet my bravado went hill-ward bound, and shyness was there left to claim the
Rudder of my thoughts, and it plotted a lonely course.
My eyes, too, tried to sneak at her face, like paparazzi flashing
From their hidden place yet all that came out was “Good morning!” with a
smile not meant for the cashier
but for that one girl I hold so dear,
The one I’m blocked by fear,
The one with the blonde-streaked hair pulled back in a messy bun
That sets my heart on fire, her make-up kindling the flame though
I know she’s still beautiful beneath it-
And I couldn’t even ask her name.
The weather cries for me,
Rain dancing to somber melody.
The sky, garbed in robes hoary-colored and gray,
Seems to me say, “Our ashes, our sackcloth,
We wear for you.
How could you feel such pain with no friend to go through,
The Arch of Misery, stacked up for the downtrodden,
Gate of the wretched in heart and in soul,
Winding roads through the realms of hurt,
Of rejection, grief, and dark things to skirt.”
And now, ‘cross the road, cedars sway and swell,
Born by the wind, yet crying still-
Like Brunhilde, for the loss of her lover fair-
Beauteous, yet powerful, solemnly mingled in their
And as pain, this comfort begins to allay,
The rain lets up as if to say,
“What has passed, is passed, it is over and done!
No time for sorrow-look out, look up, gaze upon Tomorrow!