and expects them all to come to pass,
has not yet been disappointed,
nor disillusioned
nor used casually and left waiting.
Her naiveté may be why her mother cries at her wedding
although it may not be entirely as simple as that.
An older woman hangs back just slightly,
eager too for happiness
but aware of how few actually discover it
and how many fewer still are able to keep it in their grasp.
Pretty petals are gathered by the handful
but lose their luster as they dry and curl,
becoming coarse to the tender cheek.
The wise woman listens happily
while yet watching for the signs she has unhappily come to know.
What I love about you,
for no, this is not about those hopeful young women
nor those whose hearts were molded wary.
This is, as it should be, about you.
What I love about you,
though we met late in life,
are those times,
due perhaps to your hearty laugh
or your deep contented sigh,
when I see inside you
the tender young woman I would otherwise
have never been graced to meet.