i come here every afternoon
to watch the sunset wash over
her skin, her hair, her face
to watch the breeze tug
russet strands of hair loose
caressing her neck and cheeks
but she doesn't notice

not the sun, not the hair, not me
she is lost between the pages of a
dusty green book jacket, curled
in the well worn arms of a wooden
bench, beneath the moss hung trees
as honey sweet sunshine
drips from her fingertips


Buddah Moskowitz said...

As a bibliophile, I loved this. As a lover of fine writing, I loved this more.

Charity said...

Thank you, Thank you!
Now that PAD is over, what are you using to keep you inspired daily?
I'm already planning visits around my newly discovered favorite blogs!