I’m never quite sure just who’s
romancing who. It is no secret I
am enamored with the lady I
call Missy. Others call her
Mother Nature. She has a way of
romancing me as I visit botanical
gardens, swing on a garden gate.
I’ve witnessed willows weeping
sorrowfully after her in the wind.
I, too, weep for the love of her;
I’m in awe of what she shares…
scents waft downstream through
eddies; I listen for her love song in
the piercing lyrics of a loon, owls,
who stare at the full moon, like me
know her well; for, she’s present
when you listen and look.
Jumping to my feet to kick leaves
in the woodland, crackling dead
limbs thunder under my step. I
can hear the mother of earth.
She speaks through noisy under-
brush blanketing the silent woods.
“You’re a valuable treasure,” I
tell her with a sigh. She responds.
Enthralled, by Missy’s parchment
love letter, silhouetted against the
balsam-tone sky like calligraphy,
I give in when she peers through
a lacy tree top and invites me
to dance with her.
The many forms of m’lady take
my breath away; she comes to me
in a wave of romance; I go to her
in a wave of reverence.
By Rita Joan Dozlaw