Runcible Spoon

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Apple Blossom Girl

 

She's in the field, not in the valley,

and weaves a braid with fresh-blown flowers;

she's in the woods - not forests shady -

with nature's music passing hours.

She's by the lake, not by the ocean,

whose waters seldom know commotion;

she's in the garden, not the moors,

nor near the fall's majestic roars.

 

She has not passed from storm to peace -

no thunder ever shook her summer;

when passing I will never cease

to pause and hear this artless hummer.

Serene her temples as a sage,

though she's a dew-clad May in age;

a nature peaceful – free from fault -

as stars that blink in heaven's vault.

 

Around her mouth a laughter dances -

I know not why – nor hunger to;

my soul's transparent in her glances -

she's ageless as these rocks in view.

She's fragile-strong as swooning swan,

as secret as the dappled dawn -

when in her cottage she has gone

her fountain ever trickles on.