[Prompt from http://daily-writing.blogspot.com/ .]
I stand by the window,
Gazing at all I could see
But never had hope of touching,
Waiting for my view to change.
The passing of seasons was naught
But expectation, as was the
Woodland creature grazing upon the land.
I wait each day, sitting
Upon the stony ledge,
Hoping to see your form approach
From the sunlight gilded wood
And into my happy meadow,
Your face becoming clearer
With each step you took towards me,
Bent on freeing me from my
Lofted place of seclusion.
Words on a Vine 