Soft winds are blowing,
In her face so gently that she doesn't see.
Blinded to the unknowing,
Stunted in time like a firmly grounded tree.
Too late to turn back,
The damage of love too strong.
Too scared to move forward,
Angry at herself for keeping quiet for far too long.
So smoothly groomed,
Carefully stripping away confidence, strength, and belief in herself.
That she has become entombed,
Like an old forgotten library book trapped high up on its shelf.
But something has happened!
Snapping back, slowly opening her eyes.
She has become vindicated,
Remembering that she, in fact, is far more wise.
It really doesn't matter now what is thrown her way.
No longer a slave to his ego,
Knowing she can walkaway.
But she won't do that,
Her love for him will always outweigh,
Because he is like that tree in the meadow.
Playing games of tit for tat,
Obviously not fully mature,
Due to his surrounding,
Truly not his real nature.
Patiently she can wait till spring,
For that tree is surely to grow,
And see, as nature intended, what he needs to be and needs to know.