She sat under the same old tree,
The branches of it barely sheltering her,
She still smiles but looks melancholy,
Wearing the same shirt, of that deep blue sea.
I walk up to her, as I do every week,
Then walk right past without a word,
She glances at me, she doesn’t speak,
But her dimmed eyes say it all.
There is pain, a loss of will,
And past her most frequent visitor,
Hope is not ready to come back till,
She is ready for the world.
I walk away, not turning back,
Tomorrow maybe I will say something,
Today though the courage I lack,
To comfort her, to convince myself.
In the distance, my abode seems to lure,
The hunger in me, my soul is ready for it,
But the evening out, so fresh so pure,
I am not ready for home, I am not ready to go.