It was a beautiful day

for a festive romp

in that mecca of

pampered privilege

which allowed admittance

to each humble maiden

on one annual eve

of festive solidarity.

 

My burly palms

could never slide

into dainty gloves

of ivory lace.

My stiff ebony taffeta

lent me the disguise

of a mourning widow.

 

My companion,

friend in youth

with fiery auburn ringlets

that would curl and crest

like the waves

gracing a sand-dotted beach.

Face pale and silvery

as the pearls around

Her stately neck.

She of many admirers.

I of many novels.

 

Mama told me

I was sprouting

like the stem

of maroon rosettes.

Forgive my lack

of grace and decorum.

Forgive any chips in

the porcelain doll

I tried to embody.

 

My face once reddened

like a natural rouge

when I imagined

wearing long ball gowns

and being called Miss

high and mighty lady

someday.

 

The stuffy socialites used to

implore my merciless temper,

unrelenting Apollyon

to soften.

But you liked it

when I let fly.

 

While the bow of

a fiddle caressed

the strings, and

princesses pirouetted

in oceans of flouncing fabric,

we danced in tune,

a silhouette under the sheen

of a streetlight.

We had stolen away

from that arduous affair

to sway in solitude.

 

You loved everything about the woods,

I remember the day

we raced and darted

kicking the dust

which rested on

that smooth road

that sloped so

invitingly.

 

The temptation

was irresistible.

You picked up

the hat and hairpins

which flew

from my hair,

tied in the

braids you so fancied.

 

In those days

of foolhardy youth

when I believed

you were a seer,

we dreamt of

the world beyond

the imposing walls

of that lofty attic.

That hollow

where, pen

to parchment, I

wrote in the

stead of living.

 

I am she

who was crying

on the steps

of that pristine chapel

when you, boyish visionary,

wed my friend of youth,

she of auburn locks

and impeccable manners.

 

I was terrified of

losing you.

I tried to confess

a love I always denied.

When did our hopes

stop aligning, as

they had in the yore

of youth?

 

Perhaps the boy

loved that half-savage

revolutionary of his youth,

but the man

loved a woman

prim as a

china aster.

 

You’ve seen that

world we pictured.

Did the saltwater

of the sea sting

when you frolicked,

chuckling like a child?

Were the iron statues

of that French Eiffel

towering like we always

heard say?

 

I’m sat on a bench

in the park, remembering

all that was.

Time has made

of me a

creaky relic.

 

My hair is now

turned up,

my two tails

fell victim to

forced abandon.

I still have those

long limbs which

get so in my way.

 

My piercing eyes

still sparkle

with a funny and

thoughtful gleam

when my mind

wanders to you.

You have I loved,

and may I love again.

 

The old man is

sat in the park.

The death of his beloved

and the grief found

at the prospect

brings his mind

to where recollection

cannot not find her,

the earliest days.

 

Youth makes him

recall that first companion,

that maven determined

to stay in girlhood.

He can see her braids

as they lifted

in those halls

of evergreen.

How he had

loved the woods.

 

He could feel

the heat her

anger stirred

in a temper of brimstone.

She, he had loved

in foolhardy youth.