Flowing Mirror

The Forest

With the gentle grass licking our feet,

Black waves of green frothing,

Her visage softly a-flutter,

A faerie, an impess, a porcelain nothingness,

She whirled through the dark,

Musical laughter spilling from her chest,

She took my hand and led me forth,

Rousing an ancient emotion, long rusted and scrapped

The scent of the night,

The babble in the air,

Feet in a cooling stream,

As I cautiously grasp her hair,

She looked to me,

Pressed her lips to mine,

Then silently gazed up,

Up, upon the kind silver lies.

And she whispered to me,

With satisfaction in her voice,

And the moon in her eyes,

“Isn’t the forest lovely tonight?”