The Glade

     In the glade she waits
     The dappled sunlight through the Oaks
     Drips sunshine on her head.
     Her hands in her lap she listens
     To the sound of the breeze 
     Through the leaves.
     Her gaze takes in her surroundings
     Late blooming asters:
     Blue, pink and lavender.
     The green grasses of summer turning golden.
     A rustle causes her heart to race,
     Her eyes searching for a sign, the cause,
     Has he come as he's promised her?
     Or has her long wait been for naught?
     But alas it is but the breeze in it's honesty
     Rustling the grass and proving
     The falsehood of a mans promise.

                                    9 Sept 1992


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all poems copywrited by Becky Goodrich
all rights reserved, not to be used without
expressed written consent