One day we shall meet by the river’s quiet sweep,  
Where blooms, like secrets, in the garden sleep.  

On the right, the florist, her hands so soft with care,  
Tending to fragile lives that grace the air.  

To the left, the trees, so patient, dark, and wide,  
Their roots in silence, where the shadows hide.  

Their limbs, like whispers, reach toward the sky,  
As though they, too, have learned the art of sigh.  

Above us, the moon, pale, her glow so still,  
A quiet sentinel against the night’s cold chill.  

She watches, steady, as our hearts unfold,  
In the twilight hour where time turns gold.  

We shall meet when time, like rivers, winds,  
And silence speaks the language that the heart intends.  

Not in a rush, but in a soft, sweet flow,  
Where blooms, and trees, and stars bestow.  

The river hums a tune so deep,  
The flowers bow, the trees do keep.  

Their silent watch as we draw near,  
A meeting born of calm, sincere.