The sweeping willow branches shift in the gail,
and in the shade, I look at him, a stranger,
standing just beyond the pond, along the rail,
beside the Dragonfly Path, he linger.

He has been around; I've seen him before.
I've wondered, and now I am in doubt.
He could be a friend, or he could be more.
Should I, could I, will I reach out?

He would trek through an aging forest.
Perhaps he'd walk with me to follow a lost bee,
and stop, lean against a tree stump, lest
I should want to take a part of this beauty with me.

Here or there beneath the leaves, the light is dim,
but he could make the summer's warmth reach
my body in the shade. I should beckon him.
"Take away this sadness," I would beseech.

But I will not, because he's not you.

Not you,
Not as gentle,
Not as thoughtful,
Not as handsome.

He's not you; if only I could forget you,
I could stop this loneliness. I would rather
I could wipe you from my mind's view.
I would run into the open arms of another.

But your smile is a chain with double locks,
keeping the memories of us circling behind
my eyelids: a black and white picture box.
I know, I know, you, I can never again find.

Perhaps you are only an illusion of childhood,
or my daydreams have matured you in my heart,
as the years, and my own growth would,
but now I cannot tell you and my dreams apart.

Why do I compare him, and everyone to you?
You cannot exist. You cannot come back to me.
Why do my emotions overwhelm my so few
logical thoughts? Release me and let me be free.

Willow branches sweeps before my eyes,
He's continued on along the path of willow',
sunshine, tree stumps, and dragonflies.
He's not you. So how could I follow?