Sometimes in hours pensive
Someplace like middle of a market street
She thinks of the maple tree
Under which they sat, when free
Somewhere in the middle of nowhere
Some thoughts that she can’t define
She stands struck with still feet.
In the vicinity of that market street.
From her hair curls, to the tiny feet.
From eyes moist and misty sleep
Sad, sorrowful and alone.
She often weeps woebegone.
Someone she can’t acknowledge
Some thought far forlorn.
Waking up to a melancholic morn
Not reconciled that it’s long gone.
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