By a Tree, One Summer Morning

Vicariously Poetic

One summer morning, you sat by the willow.

A book, lazily draped over bare knees.

The meaning of time lost among branches.

Closed, your eyes were.

I watched you, intently from afar.

The dry summer breeze filtered by blonde strands.

One summer morning, you did not see me there.

Maybe you felt my presence.

I felt a flutter of the heart.

Time meant nothing to me.

Seconds, then minutes, passed by.

One summer morning, I sat by the willow.

Hoping, in futile earnest, for you to arrive.

You never came.

It was one morning.

Only one.

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