From these scratchings where the charcoal falls,
Glorious from beneath that alders’ knoll,
A study perhaps to a life,
For she’s the mother and a wife,
Children will never know,
For their games taught so long ago,
It's the luscious song from high,
And from below, our sweet 'hellos',
Sing to us your serenade for the warblers are in tune,
They’ll play no other song,
To an empty stage but not for very long,
What will spring bring?
It is the warmth and rains,
The view transformed, aware for winters pain,
We’ve traveled to this rivers bend,
The sentinel from the middle end,
Along those emerald washes,
They'll quench the charcoals pledge,
Sweet as that rivers sedge,
It will be your silhouette that takes shape,
And motions me back for this visions so great.
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