The Write Place

She sits alone on a bench in the park

The sun’s rays dint in her hair most stark

The sound of children playing in the air

Draw her gentle tempered stare

The smell of sweet perfume wafting from her form

A morning ritual now her norm

Thoughts of things that may be in her head

Of places to go she has not tread

Someone somewhere out in the world

Awaits a life not yet unfurled

A union ever fruitful

Producing life now unborn

Awaits a name now unknown

For now she sits and waits

On that park bench all alone