Sometimes

Sometimes,
when he is alone in his thoughts,
standing there in the open ground underneath a warming sun,
and the air is still and quiet,
the wind comes up, unexpectedly,
and nuzzles against his neck,
kissing his ears,
playing with his hair,
caressing his cheek
and he remembers her fiery eyes,
and the softness of her voice,
and unspoken longings,
the whiteness of her bosom,
his final loss.

Something in him stirs, then, at those moments,
and he pauses,
thinking briefly of the might have beens
that were not,
that could not be,
that did not happen,
and knows the touch of regret.
Then, like the wind,
sometimes, he sighs.

You Stood in the Garden

O daughter, dear daughter,
your hair was so red,
you stood in the garden,
but the roses had fled,
yes, the roses had fled
and their petals had blown.
You stood in the garden
so sad and alone.

O daughter, dear daughter,
the sky was so gray
as you stood in the garden
that dark lonely day,
that dark lonely day
in the dress you had sewn.
You stood in the garden
so sad and alone.

O daughter, dear daughter
the letter was white
that you read in the garden
alone, out of sight,
alone, out of sight
when you started to moan.
You stood in the garden
so sad and alone.

O daughter, dear daughter,
your heart grew so black,
when you read how he wrote
he was not coming back
he was not coming back -
like a bird, he had flown.
You stood in the garden
so sad and alone.