Her eyes are cast down,
Those beautiful delicate eyes,
To balance that horrendous hat of hers
On top her head.
A gaudy plume masks her chiffon curls
And sharpens her features tightly and harshly.
With your face down like that, my dear, you won’t know where to go!
Still, blindly and stony, she goes on her way,
Until one unfortunate, or rather very fortunate day,
right into the firm chest of a gentleman!
His classy pocket watch that he was grasping
until it lands on the wet pavement with a clang.
Abashed and with a dappled blush,
Our young lady leans down to pick it up
Only to look into warm cinnamon eyes
that reach into her glass heart.
And then her hat
Until it rests to join the watch on the wet pavement.
Her hair, freed from those dreadful, aching curls,
Willows around her upturned face-
The same tender shade as those cinnamon eyes.