Before her mascaraed lashes moistened with disobedient teardrops,
he’d begged, in the privacy of his mind,
for a tiny plot, whereon love could blossom in tune with the season.
And as her tears combined in their slide over porcelain cheeks,
he bridged the gap between reality and fantasy,
like a ladder spread lengthwise.
“Take my hand, or I’ll take yours,” he offered.
“Let’s vanquish those vile demons who arrive at the cherry blossom party,
intending to descend like blossoms and wound like blades.”
But his words weren’t soothing enough;
Breaking their banks, like so many defrosting rivers,
her tears continued to flow,
washing him yards further from her heart.
A young farmer, freshly wandering the fields of trust,
he yearned too much,
and spoke so openly his words betrayed him,
eliciting her tears instead of ending his longing —
He was learning the jerky nature of farming.
For even by employing his kinetic mind,
he could not make her see the hidden possibilities:
a beautiful garden on their little plot;
warmth in a house reminiscent of the little one on the Prairie;
or a twosome multiplied with love.
So when he dropped her hand, she didn’t protest
that they had demons yet to be slain,
and that she yearned to retire, after their long fight, into his arms.
Her tears just dried up, like a parched stream;
Her fingers let his slip, like April into May.
He, alone, could tend to the thought that only a fool farms the plot on the water’s edge!