There, in the far corner
she sits – not young, no beauty –
only eyes that tell stories in a lost language.
No scandals or tales of bloody revenge here,
only an opulent life of the mind,
possibilities lurking in black loam awaiting
cool spring rains and the hot kiss of summer
to ripen them to their blooming.
And even then, when these buds burst,
most will never notice – their scent too subtle
to compete with the heavy musk of the gaudy world;
their tints, though rich, are too deep,
buried in a blizzard of high def amping.
Only the most discerning will discover
this small plot; only the most curious will stop a moment;
only the bravest will forgo the cheap and easy
in favor of the pleasures of the unexpected.
To him these eyes will tell their tales
in blossoms of faith, hope, losses, redemption, courage,
and, finally, love.