Traveling along those rustic tracks,
As he often had before,
Not watching through the glass this time:
No; his mind he would explore.
Endless, never-ending rungs
Reflected the countless nights
And days he'd patiently daydreamed
Of the smells, the air, the sights
Of this new place; but not of the town.
Nor the station, nor the lights...
...but of her.
That music of fire, strolling forth in her eyes,
That dangerous lick of her sun-grasped hair.
The enigmatic workings, deliberating her smile
And, all the while,
That undeserved care of which she dare to wield,
Whilst sheathing her shield.
~
What would, if any motion, the first reaction be?
A glimpse? Flamed cheeks? Embrace-sown intensity?
As winged as the carriage, his thoughts were skimming loud,
The doors parted, unnamed peers departed, now left waiting...
...awaiting sound...
Which sound?
What voice doth the soul-heart carry?
What action wouldst she parry?
What mention wouldst she maketh tally?
And yet, as blinking writhes all man,
Aloft she stood nearing the wroughted gate,
Peering, cautious, from her leaning hands.
Gaze met with loving, fertile fate.
~
His mind debating with legs: frustrating
Wanting to begin his first: yet waiting
And all together now: deliberating
Both hearts meet:
Racing
The walk quickens, hopping almost
And hoping, wishing; praying almost
And with a horizontal hand, the tension shivers
As the wistful embrace...is finally delivered.
Will it be the last? Or will this begin the 'ever after'?
The rustic tracks roll on toward the beginning...
