Give her a low and guttural flow,
the way a small stone fits in her palm, the skip
(of heartbeat); the burbled psalm of going somewhere soon.
Shiver her the language of moonspill breeze,
the sway of treesong and silence,
the calm of curve and towering green.
River her a lullaby,
a painted sky of blur and blue,
the slow and sure translation of her own small sigh.
Prompted by guest host Paul over at dVerse Poetics today. Come play!