I sat there in the park by the great oak tree,
Trying to work my way into poetry.
But as I looked around, there was so much to see,
There were people chatting with their families.
Their kids running and playing hide and seek,
And then there was this girl by another autumn tree.
Under the shade of its yellow orange leaves,
She sat with a notebook in that corner, free.
She wrote in it, too consumed by her own piece,
And I stared at her in the glances I stole for free.
Her hair, her eyes, the curves of her cheeks,
and her hands as they wrote, gaining better speed.
Unaware of the fringe of dark hair that fell in her eyes,
Too busy in her work to have noticed the birds on the tree she sat by.
She bit her lip every now and then in time,
And never noticed the boy who chose her tree to hide by.
And the boy stared at her, forgetting that he had to hide,
Observing, transfixed by her skin, the color of a mother’s lullaby.
And he kept watching until he got caught.
Then he played denner and left the girl’s spot.
She continued writing as lights twinkled in her hair,
Too busy to have noticed the change in the air.
It was getting colder as they day was beginning to fade,
And only then she finally let her head raise.
She looked around, there was realization in her face,
And I noticed the color of her eyes as she picked herself up in good grace.
And she rushed too fast, trying to gather back time,
Too fast to have noticed she’d left something behind.
There lay on the grass a little black stick – her pencil,
The tool most poets used in pages to fill.
And one may have thought that she had been a poet,
A girl by the tree who had worked on a poem,
But only two people in the park knew it for what it was.
Two people who had stared at her without a single pause,
It was the boy who hid behind the tree and I,
We were the ones who saw the lie.
She may have thought herself a poet, but the boy and I would disagree,
‘Cause we saw that she wasn’t the poet, but herself the poetry.
So I carried back home her pencil with me,
Keeping it in my drawer as souvenir,
That she wasn’t a poet and neither was I,
It was God alone, who painted poetry in her beautiful green eyes.