Waiting At The Window

I can see now, her misty eyes,
tears flowing undisguised,
losing count of hopeful sighs,

the frosty window frames her face,
her hair adorned in ribbons and lace,
staring bleakly into winter space,
her head resting in the palm of her hand,
in company of dark skies widely spanned,
wishing for what the evening planned,
her dress becomes wrinkled as she sits alone,
in the quiet room of her snow laden home,
watching as snowflakes dance below,
and her coat hangs loosely beside the door,
brushing the surface of the wooden floor,
wondering if it will ever be worn,
her tender heart beats impatiently,
for the one that she might never see,
the one who promised to come for her that eve,
but his horse is not heard over the rising hills,
as she waits alone at the window sill,
drying tears that come against her will,
he won’t be graced by her beauty tonight,
nor look into eyes over warm candle light,
and she is breathtaking, an elegant sight,
having waited so long for him to arrive,
she is left torn, feeling less than alive,
whispering farewell, and aching inside,
and she closes her eyes just once to try,
to imagine him riding beneath December skies,
to where she waits in the presence of night,
and she can almost see him in that snowy place,
almost touch his cold and wintry face,
knowing their encounter came by grace,
but the last bit of hope leaves her there,
as she unlaces her shoes and lets down her hair,
trying to resist the fall of despair,
her candle melts to its final glow,
as she glances once more at the tumbling snow,
her heart, at last, letting go.