she
sits quietly on
a cold, rusted bench,
day-dreaming to the
constant, melodic rustle
of reds, yellows, and oranges
dangling in the calm, crisp
autumn air.

she
gazes, breathlessly,
across wide-open fields,
full of creaking windmills.
fabricating memories,
hoping, one day to be
treasured as her own.
as the thick morning mist
surrounds her.

she
searches, patiently,
over-top tranquil waters.
waiting for him to
answer the questions
she cannot solve alone.
while the sleeping boats
gently toss and turn
against rotting docks.

she
glances towards,
the overcast clouds.
praying for, at least,
her shadow
to return.