Between light-speckled greenery
of new and ancient oaken trees—
that which we call our hallowed home;
the forest that I have always known—
I hear her song, twixt the wind
which lightly whistles through branches thinned
by little talons, my own and hers
and those of every bird who stirs
within our haven, this summer-sweet
grove of trees, under which we meet
as I soar forever towards
a melody created without words;
every note bursts with her love
and so I fall from far above
to hold her tightly in my wing,
as she is such a pretty, tender thing—
others are around us now,
warbling melodies, but how
can any bird compare to her?

Her, with bluest plumage and honest soul,
she blesses my eyes as an angelic whole—
so I am always where she art;
as now, in our shared summertime.