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Who might be the stranger foretold to be grey:

a visitor, a suitor, a magician, so they say,

what is his destination or his time frame on his way

where will our paths cross and why, come let it may.

I’m not tempting fate to see someone, something,

I wearied long ago to expect a lover with a ring

my debts are handled carefully, in spare time I sing,

and my heart is light and airy seeing butterflies awing.

My crystal balls show pictures but foe or friend is it?

My goals are grand and challenging, so with them I sit.

If anyone has dreams to equal mine, lift me from the pit.

I would engage all concepts, to the planners flit.

But long I’ve heard the tale of this stranger as I age.

I wish it all came to fruition, ’ere I turn my final page.