A Dream

 Spring. The air is cool, the morning light is pink and pale. Small white flowers form a carpet around trees still bare from winter only recently departed. 

I see her there. Flushed and fair. Glowing in that tender light, which morning only produces. She wears no smile on her lips,  nor any expression on her brow. There is no need, peace prevails .

Birds sing gently through the boughs and branches. Each playing their part in the rich symphony. The flowers sway in a light breeze. 

There are her eyes, searching in their depth. Like a purling stream in green and blue and gray. Now glancing from petal to branch, trunk to sky. Looking for nothing. 

Hair pours down her back, long and full. Only a few strands disturbed by the breeze. Golden-brown and shining like a wood finely polished. 

Softly her breast rises and falls with slowly drawn breaths. As she steps with care and grace among the blooms. I watch her pass behind a tree, she is gone. The birds are singing.