White, like linen is her dress.
And morning’s sun
Will her caress
And hold her soft
As lovers often do.
Still, in quiet
She will lay,
Till morning’s sun
Paint’s an array
Of golden blush
As painters often do.
Adrift, and cast
Upon her shore
Lay treasures that
Beckon one to explore.
Discovering all her secrets
As treasure hunters often do.
Two , simply posed,
Once, and once moreDash about in fierce fashion
Up and down the shore,
Going who knows where
As wandering souls often do.
Whispers, I listen
To all she has to say,
Beneath the din
Of those who’ve come to play.
I tell the tale, of her spell,
Penning thoughts...
As poets often do.
