my lady saunters, stops, and stoops
sits down on a log she dusts off.
bare footed with spun tresses loose,
absentmindedly soaking silks. and
she sings
my love dares to dip her fingers in the
rapid stream rushing out, paints her
fingers blue, laughs it off and lays
down, flower fields tangling. Her
voice fills the space, flooding it.
not the wind, nor the time between
but a breath and its release,
misses a sound out of her throat
for if she twirls, tumbles, or stares,
the selfsame gift she will bestow
full throated or mumbled just so,
her song the sweetest sound to hear
the world gathers above her lips