Dark, with depths unknown,
a well without a spring
lays patiently in wait
for summer rains that never come.
The brush, long since dried,
is frustrated, caught between
solemn stones and playful winds.
A pattern is seen within the sand
being blown about, a waltz with
decaying leaves flitting as
butterflies in broken synchronicity.
Her long hair partially hides her
face in strange wisps,
odd shadows forming as the sun
grasps hopelessly for more day,
lips curled at the precipice
…of a smile.