Far Away,
The lark sang, high in a beech tree,
Above its nest, it’s humble abode
As the vibrant petals of the trees blew,
In the swift wind blowing in it’s feather’s.
But now she flies away, it’s young,
All grown and have nests of their own.
She is old, her flight unsteady,
And my heart dampens.
Perhaps not so long ago,
A buck rabbit and his doe,
Bounded over the grass,
Halting under a the hanger,
Their litter late,
They curled up tight,
And rabbit kittens played during crisp evening.
But now they have left, as golden leaves fall,
And my heart grows colder.
Not so long ago,
A touch of flowers in my hand,
A cobblestone slab,
Words inscribed.
Deep meaning to my heart, I clutch a scarf,
As warm droplets of rain fall from the rumbling sky,
The gray plume of clouds over my head,
A black umbrella shielding my hair.
A rabbit and a lark, formed in the clouds,
And my heart is ice.
Now the brown train rumbles down a rail-way,
Plumes of smoke coming from the engines,
Crossing long stretches of country sides,
As a doe scrapes the earth for her litter in her plump belly,
And a lark weaves her nest.
I sit by the window, alone in a cabin.
My hands crossed, a luggage near my feet,
My brown hair tied into a messy tail,
My heart is still.
The Cabin door opens with a soft squeal,
A young gentleman with brown locks awkwardly stumbles in.
He’s had some trouble, which is clear.
His tickets crushed in his palm, he looks at me, inquiring.
“This car’s not taken?” I shake my head, and he sits beside me.
Spark a conversation.
Maybe my heart shall melt.
Lol my poetry sucks.