There’s a tree near our school
at the top of the hill
overlooking the road
that rolls down the bluff.

A plum tree in full bloom.

A bride,
she stands at the top
of a winding staircase

Her groom never arrives.

Every year
in the first days of March
she returns dressed in white
and dreams of a waltz
in a pale blue room
under glass chandeliers.
Gently she moves
to music that
no one can hear.

She considers the winter.
She tries to stop thinking.
He never arrives.

Is it wrong that we stare?

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