With eyes red,
dust she’d swear.
From the far off reaches
Violet was wandering
alone in the desert,
just as her throat begs,
she thinks of her Sir.
His heavy handed use of words
always flooding her
it hasn’t rained in years
and yet, Violet is hopeful
tonight there will be this downpour.
She turns and writes
“doubt the stars are fire
doubt the sun doth move
doubt truth to be a liar
just never doubt thy love.”
Just as swiftly,
as she etched Shakespeare
with a withered and dried stick
she stares at what must of been
a limb from strong growing tree.
There is change in everything,
oh but not this,
the words to her Sir.
She smiles to think
He has to be sick with worry
she kicks her prophetic words
written softly in sand
back into the surface of the land.
Dear Sir,
with all due respect
I must beg
for just a few more seasons
before we can properly be
introduced in person.
with love,
Violet.
Dragonflypoetry.com 
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