"If only she were mine
And not another's," he said,
Putting down her picture
And looking at the sun,
Wondering where she was
And whom she was with
And how happy she was
And if she thought of him
As he did her. Probably not,
He mused, feeling somewhat hot,
Sensing distance grow,
Feeling her shadow
Pass him by like wind
Through branches of a tree.
And me, what of that?
What if she never comes again?
What if she goes and all is lost?
He turned from the sun,
Picked up her picture,
And kissed the glass,
These things may come; but all things pass.
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