the colored pencil markings tell a tale:
a girl’s eyes stuck on fields which lie outside
of her bay window. as the dawn skies pale,
she thinks in silence of her life confined.

so dastardly are his reproaches, and
so manic his reactions. struggle may
or may not be forgivable. (fling sand
at those poor souls; there is another way.)

hope flows eternal, but that door slides shut
it seems as if he cannot care—she vies
for his attentions—mind’s stuck in a rut:
“the spring will win when winter fin’lly dies.”

as watching wheat-filled meadows ought to bring
the endless need (of woe–fraught souls) to sing