Two seeds are frivolously planted, roots begin to grow
the gardener and his shovel made a groove beneath the snow.
With words and without warning, she tries but can’t forget
one side thoughtful gentleman, the other makes her fret.
Once more retreat begins, protective cloak she wears
hiding so her eyes can’t see, the net, unpredictable snares.
Who she is, is not enough, painful, usual, truth
Soul sore of being second best to fantasies and youth.
© Michelle Sotiriou 2014