Poetry

---

Her arms, they ache to hold only one.
She cries in the night,
“Will there e’er be a morn?
When I wake up to find,
him here by my side,
will there ever be such a morn?”

She stands at the gate waiting for him to come
For as it has been since the days of old,
Many seeds there may be,
but only her soul.
And then just one more,
the one she waits for.

Now seeds may be planted by the Gardener’s hands.
They could be the beginnings of that precious romance.

Which seed could it be?
Her eyes rest on one.
“That’s the seed for me”
And so it’s begun.

---

PLEASE ENCOURAGE AUTHOR BELOW LEAVE COMMENT ON ARTICLE