But, what hurls inside of her differs
She writes a letter of her feelings and place
his name in gold, stamped with pink stickers
She holds tightly onto the rose bouquet
Brushes her hair, flattens her skirt, she taps
Counting each minute tick away
Leaning on the tree she thinks, perhaps.
Hiding her cheeks blush cherry red
As leaves sway about, and butterflies flutter
Among the spring breeze, her heart thumps ahead
For her love, oh, Benjamin Schuter.
Just as she decides to turn, appears her love
And maybe, she sent her messenger dove.
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