Therese Gramercy . . . the girl named Trees

Ice Sculpture


You want me now
you say it can’t wait,
but is that really fair?
I just met you at eight.

It must be your way,
and your timing, not mine,
What’s the hurry I say?
There will be lots of good times.

Frustrated, we part ways,
for there was no way to agree.
Was it about timing? Or about winning?
Or about another soul that we seek?