"I met a beautiful woman once."
the man says from across the park bench.
"As have I met this beautiful woman."
"Perhaps it is the same woman we speak of."
"Perhaps so."
is my only reply
"She was as cold as ice, nothing but darkness in her eyes?"
"Nay. Every bit of her was consumed with fury and fire."
"Her voice, sunken and sullen, covered the world in gray?"
"She sang as though light seeped from her fingertips."
"Did she whisper sweet nothings into your ear?"
"Did her tales of wickedness horrify?"
"Nay," we say in unison,
"Not her, never her."
"She came in the dreary of winter night, such as a raven in flight?"
"As a robin in spring, bringing forth a new coming."
A long pause awaits us.
Only silence until I say,
"Perhaps it is not the same woman we speak of?"
"Perhaps so."
is his only reply.
He stands to leave, but stops short of doing so.
"If not the same, perhaps sisters then?"
"Perhaps so..."
YOU ARE READING
Where the Garden Ends
PoetryWhere the garden ends, And weeds begin, Here, true living stems. A collection of poetry
