The sun came out while it was raining,
And fell like tears on her golden hair.
Off in the trees, a bird was singing.
She never noticed he was there.
Fingers toying with a daisy,
She chanted an old nursery rhyme:
...loves me, she murmured, ...loves me not.
White petals fell, one at a time.
Would she have believed he loved her,
Had that flower told her so?
Or would she have always doubted?
He walked away; he’ll never know.
Warm light fell on her streaming hair.
The day he left her had turned fair.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: John William Godward, He loves me, he loves me not
(1896), oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons
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