Lone, But Not Lonely
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Joan Marlowe was eight years old, and loved the smiling, happy people;
As green pines love chattering redbirds, when an orange sun is gleeful.
And yet, when some found they were too busy, Joan petulantly pouted,
Like the creeping golden sunshine, dark blue-gray skies, once doubted.
Little Joan was outgoing and fun, the little girl that everyone wanted;
And often full of joyous smiles, like the rose, to which heart responded.
Fine feathered, fan-tailed cuckoos, passed sweet violet time, so slowly;
When Joan and best friends played hopscotch, 'til plum sun sunk lowly.
And Joan truly loved jumping games, such as leap frog, or jump rope;
Like the emergence of emerald leap year, when hazy time must cope.
Fiery stars abided, firmly fixed, like blithe, fixed smiles of family, calling;
When fun was permanently a household word, like rainbows enthralling.
Joan lived in the house of lineage, and the ancestors peered from walls;
And musical laughter was ever present, inside the rose perfumed halls.
Semiconscious noon sparkled saffron, down their spacious street of sun;
As sultry, yellow summer, startled shadow, 'ere the idle hour was done.
Nameless, nectarous blooms brought smiles, to the neighbors, coming;
In wild days of not much renown, when goggle-eyed frogs were jumping.
Cheeky clover was turning up everywhere, arrayed in contrasting colors;
When whimsical rose felt sapphire blue, her rare hue of golden summers.
And quirky 'Queen Anne's Lace,' undulated in elegance and cool grace;
As seared sun drops swooned in place, amid lily laughter, hard to trace.
Joan's favorite Aunt, Alice, was coming to visit. Aunty was loads of fun!
She would bring treats and tell late stories, like an aurora borealis vision.
But, Alice found she could not come, for she had to tend to a sick friend;
Like a hued whirlwind of confusion, in swirling leaves, at summer's end.
Crushed, Joan sunk into a discontented pout, like blooms, weeping rain.
Still so very young, Joan had not yet learned, to feel for another's pain.
When Mother scolded, saying, 'What if you were sick?' Joan understood;
And was ashamed of her bad behavior, like variable shades of childhood.
Joan still loves throngs of colorful people, but now loves her own society,
Like the lusty song of lone blackbird, in the garden of varicolored variety.
'Here am I, little jumping Joan,
When nobody’s with me,
I’m always alone.'
Copyright © Evelyn Judy Buehler | Year Posted 2024
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