Diane de Echeandia

That spring, she was airborne--
lightheaded, lingering under
white pear blossoms--
breathing the scent of newly mown
grass where yellow daffodils
swayed, anointed in sunlight.

By summer´s end, shadows
lengthened like the long goodbye,
and his ardent promises to write.
He left her waving, waiting
until he was out of sight.

His letters arrived
often, at first--loving,
full of news. Then, by and by,
his letters became infrequent.
His tone cool as October frost.

As the seasons transitioned,
her deepening fear of
his waning affection
formed like icicles
clinging to her heart.

More than a year had
passed, when the snow-covered
mailbox delivered second-hand
news that soon,
he would be married
to another.