Each night I hear her.
She cries alone, poor soul.
She sits alone on the terrace
Overlooking the city.
She seems so lost and forlorn.
Her beautiful blue gown
Blends gently with the shadows.
Her lovely black hair
Shows traces of gray.
She seems not to notice me
As I cautiously approach.
I place a gentle hand on her shoulder.
She turns towards me,
And I awake.
Dec. 5, 1978
© 2010 – 2011, Steven R. Drennon. All rights reserved.