A girl, a hug, and a poem

I sit with paper and pen,

Scratching my beard like an incomplete philosopher

Waiting for wisdom.

I sit with paper and pen

By the window

Looking at the old road

Where children run around

And old couples walk hugging each other for warmth.

There is no age to love,

And there is no age to poetry.

But it is hard for both to happen

At any age.

So I sit with paper and pen

By the window,

Able to write nothing.

And then she comes;

The short girl with short hair,

Wearing specks,

Hugging her books.

Maybe it's the only hug she has known.

Maybe it’s the only thing she feels everyday;

The hard covers,

The papers,

Things that don’t speak to the heart.

Maybe it's the only hug she has known,

And I see it in her sunken eyes;

Tired yet wild;

A lion with a bloody face,

Still hunting.

The moon on a cloudy night

Invisible,

Yet bright.

She still hugs her books,

And it is the only hug she has felt.

There is a tear in my eye.

Maybe

She should know what a warm hug

From a warm chest feels like.

Maybe

She wants to be loved

Like us all.

But I sit here watching her pass

Gently,

Like a mist,

Like a ghost passing through buildings.

I take up my pen and begin to write.

Now

There is something to write about,

Someone to write to.

So I take up my pen

And write lines for her

she'll never read.