| Just a Girl In the summer of fifty-nine she was thin and frail; not brown, yet not quite olive. She stood ankle deep in the dust of summer as the convoy churned the dry roadbed into a huge red cloud. Late afternoon sun, filtering through the suspended dust, enclosed her completely in a halo of lavender and orange. She was motionless, peering into the haze with eyes so intensely black, they seemed to cut two small tunnels through the darkening cloud. Hair, curly and black as her eyes was matted close to her head; her right arm casually held a crudely constructed crutch....and then she smiled. At that very instant i loved her. Her name? I cannot say. She was just a girl. Patrick Hubauer Return to Submitted Poetry |