The Love Affair
Amy Lyn Miller
Amidst the ambiance of the wild,
she lays herself upon the bench
made of slate gray and cold.
Beneath a flowering willow tree,
her pillow is plush, soft and green,
a velvety moss to cushion her head.
The mist of an adjacent stream
blankets all that happens to be in the path,
like the dew of a blustery autumn morn.
She breathes in the wind,
their separate breaths mixing as one,
natural ingredients of her soul.
She exhales the fragrance
by which the ferns of the forest survive,
without a ray of sun nearby
Her body has warmed to a feverish degree
and she glows with brilliance,
as if an angel had her embraced.
Waltzing away, she whistles
the immortal love song that echoes within.
