On her mother’s stone step, she sits and dreams

The same step she cleaned and crossed so often

Her dress, crisp and clean in the sunshine gleams

This backstreet beauty, rare rose in blossom

 

What whims flicker through her wandering mind

Perchance what prospect does life hold in store

Will her journey be gentle not unkind?

Shall her story be one of less not more?

 

In her soft hands, there is cradled a book

Pages fully filled, they make her think

Will her account be worth a second look?

Perhaps, with her own pen, and her own ink

 

Though gone now sunlit days of drifting dreams

And moons, waxed and waned, like yesterday it seems