Every day, she comes down from the window
walking by the boy with flowers stick-stuck,
looking anxiously at the passer-bys,
catching each in some pose or reverie.
Four times of ten she catches those soft blues
from the eye corners only, refraining.
"Ah, he is 'merican!" says she, in mind
conspiring reasons for abatement.
Has he long made up his to travel there
bouquet under arm, to view only the Seine?
A river sprite with good grin, cut features
meant to impress, and almost doing so.
Looking like those that read blog life stories,
then put his on a number; the wheel spun,
landed him on these banks so he slowly,
soulfully may soak up the river smell.
And wait.
She giggles, thinking of writing this too;
her life, and an 'merican boy fused? PAH!
But the days never shift, and he daily
spies at her, always in recognition.
She awakens one dawn to a startling,
removed from a dream where the waters spoke,
long, slow sounds lapping at the edges of
her, her spectacle, and nothing else more.
This time, she scents the roses wafting early,
goes to the window sill with nightgown drawn,
peering; a chance to catch sapphire rising,
with hope, wonder now in heart held.
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