(the miscommunication)
A frigid rain clattering the window,
Penetrating the taped glass.
Brushing past her rose red cheeks,
It touched the floor somehow.
The floor previously bearing her cold feet,
Is now burdened with a freezing downpour.
Love crawling out of her eyes,
Damping lashes against sorrow.
She hauled, her swain, unknowing,
And asked him,
“How come weariness in February,
If it belied those deceiving August eyes.”
A lover’s complaint to her swain:
“Why should August not expect August
from February.”
The young man, still in love’s limbo,
Couldn’t collect the carcass of her words.
Neither did he think to catch the falling sparkle,
Nor did he replace the window.
The lass, rewording his absence.
The subtle the words, the colder the floor-
Will she still commend him with her
Once beauteous floor?
