Picture: Hiver by Berthe Morisot
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My lady of the hills,
Raised
Above ashes and broken mills,
May I have this dance?
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Boots are soiled,
Hands are cracked,
Yet I know
You shall not draw back.
For
The fields of Caer
Bow at your feet;
Your fingers and the sky
Constantly meet.
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I hold your hips,
Sturdy and cold.
Your white skin’s rough
Though sweet to behold.
Under my lips,
You do not shiver
But reply with glee…
What kind of madman would kiss a tree?
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Herons