She is a stepping stone with unadorned dreams;
Plucked with pebble hands–small, not in galore, it seems.
Lying in the shallow gurgling waters,
Buried in the dirt path of the meandering brook,
She covets not the celestial reredos of the night;
Neither does the creamy confluence of streamers flatters her sight.
The cherry lips of dawn, smother her with kisses;
But she longs for the fleeting breath of the wind past her glaucous tresses.