A drop of beauty woven in a line,

A winsome smile bent in a cursive swirl,

The cadence of dear words clasped in a rhyme,

Sweet thoughts of love that only verse unfurls.

The mystic magic of a lover’s pen,

Soft tears that fall upon the billet-doux,

More drops that blur the ink like vernal rain—

Her eyes alight, she reads the words anew.

The rune then blotted with a tissue dry,

And placed with care inside the glory box;

The lid then closed, again she starts to cry—

Wet stains of hope upon her linen smock.

A gaze upon the garden, vast and green…

Where now she floats in rapture, soft, serene.