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a poem

By Sara HudsonPublished 3 years ago 1 min read
image is stock from pixabay by cgcowboy

White, her dress, pristine...pure.

Stems of white lilies and white roses

bound with white ribbon clutched

in her hands as she waited.

She waited in the small white church

with the tall white steeple.

She waited in vain.

Years have colored the white dress to pale yellow.

The white flowers to a rotten, dried, brown.

The church is thirsty...weathered.

Every year she comes on that day

in that dress

holding those flowers

at that church

and she waits...she waits.

On this day, her weathered, wrinkled hands

clutch the tattered brown bouquet

and she leans against the church,

her breath rattling in the cold air.

The flakes of white falling.

Falling into blankets of white

until everything, dress, flowers,

church are white again.

Years of waiting are over.

love poems

About the Creator

Sara Hudson

I am here in hopes it will motivate me to write everyday in some form and return to one of my earliest passions that has too long been buried.

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