Moss, slippery and wet beneath my feet,
Covering the rock and root tangled path I traverse.
Though drenched to the bone I am in ecstasy
For my love awaits by the lake shore.
The melodic sound of the wren announces my arrival,
Yet I am unable to discern whether she is happy or agitated.
No matter, through the mist I spy my lover’s shawl
Resting lazily on a fallen oak.
I call to her, but I am offered no reply.
How perplexing is this predicament.
The mirror like stillness of the lake reveals no trace,
No footsteps point her direction.
What supernal event has befallen her?
Horrible graphic images come to mind.
Did she drown,
Did she fall victim to some unknown villain,
Was she disheartened,
Choosing to stray off as some palliative remedy?
Alas, I am alone,
The fragrant scent of patchouli wafting from her shawl,
This–the only sign she had ever existed,
But for the perfect masterpiece of her kept
By the artist, that is my mind.
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco~~