My mind wanders back, <br />from time to time, <br />to the place of the winding road <br />where first I saw her… <br />on Street. <br /> <br />I don’t know who she was. <br />She stood in the <br />distance, <br />leaning against the boulder <br />of the Talking Rocks. <br /> <br />The morning sun <br />peeked through the sleepy <br />dogwood trees; <br />I leaned over the balcony rail, <br />in hopes of catching <br />a better glimpse <br />of her. <br /> <br />A wisp of wind <br />appeared, as if from nowhere. <br />She crossed her arms, <br />shuddering in the cool breeze <br />and turned to look my way. <br />Then she was gone – <br />disappeared, <br />as if she been… <br />dare I say a ghost? <br /> <br /> <br />I saw her once another time, <br />only briefly, <br />late at night with the moon <br />shining in her silver hair, <br />wandering aimlessly down <br />a dimly lit Street. <br /> <br />I don’t know who she is, <br />but sometimes, quite unannounced, <br />she sneaks into my dreams. <br />She says not a word <br />and, quietly as she came, <br />slips away <br />into the pale moonlight <br />down that twisted road <br />beyond the talking rocks.<br /><br />Mahfooz Ali<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/talking-rocks/
