On An Evening Terrace Poem by Ianaldo Prescott Pourchot

I strolled among the streets one wintry night.
The streetlight's cloud was spread amongst the sky,
And beside me, a face I believed was shown,
Was only a reminder—that I was alone.

My hands are cold!
My hands are cold!

I went home and gazed out the veranda,
Wondering if that face was propaganda.
It was a rather beautiful face, I do declare,
It was a girl with sadness in her eyes,
And daisies in her hair.

My hands are cold!
My hands are cold!

Maybe I could place a name on her,
But it is especially hard to decipher.
Maybe her hands are warm,
Perhaps she is more than norm.

On the terrace balcony I begin to lie,
And watched as the moon left the silky sky.
I sulked that night in utter sorrow,
But hoped for hours I'd see her tomorrow.

So that my shivering hands—
Wouldn't feel so cold.