Chosen Little Lady

She is the quiet one,

Wrapped in a magic world of spring and summer;

Of drifting leaves, golden and damp;

Of winter nights after snowfall.

Sitting on a stump she is framed

In the green of the forest maple,

Singing a summer song that my heart remembers.

She is peaceful.

Gliding softly over mirrored images,

Her voice is like the gurgling of the water beneath the boat.

We talk of the mountain

of the maker

of the woodsmoke hanging motionless over the darkening waters

of the first stars of evening,

and the distant sounds of laughter around the fires.

She is like them.