It was the promise
of spring . . .
of warm smiles
after countless years
of being alone . . .
But the flowers
never came . . .
they withered
even before they bloomed . . .
and the sun has set
even before it has
ever risen . . .
The hand that
once was there
was a soft cool mist - - -
shimmering . . .
glistening . . .
but it was only to be seen
. . . not touched
because as I reached
for it
. . . it was gone
