Dearest Friend,

My dearest friend,
It is pleasant here; the leaves have begun to change. I spend my days with a book in my hands and a song in my head. The song is melancholy.
I do miss you, dearest friend. The breeze has gotten cooler. I take long walks and listen to the leaves break under my feet,
Please come see me, dearest friend. The days are getting shorter. I watch films in the evening to pass the time. The films are predictable.
It has been so long, dearest friend. We laid in the sun when last I saw you. We wore dresses and I picked flowers.
Do not forget me, dearest friend. My spirit may begin to change. I count the beats of my heart with a song in my head. The song in melancholy.

The Girl Sitting Under a Tree

There is a girl sitting under a tree.
The leaves are a canopy of yellow above her and brown around her.
The deep red of her sweater is all that
 distinguishes her from the trunk.
There is a small book in her hands with a worn cover.
All the noise around her has no affect on the tranquility
 of her position or her attention to her story.
The only movement is that of the escaped strand of hair
 on her cheek shivering in the fall breeze.
The girl under the tree sits, absorbed in the pages,
 finding escape, sollice.
Look closely, observe the small movement of her lips
 mouthing the words as she reads.
Passersby do not give her a second glance,
 the girl oblivious to the world, nor should they.
She is happy this way, invisible to the world from which she escapes.
She fiddles with her necklace and smiles to herself.
I live great adventures in these pages and all they see is a girl.
I am just a girl sitting under a tree.