You may never
catch a glimpse of her
for she is in disguise.
She is in the delicate wild flower
as it opens in the early dawns sunrise.
She is in the once stilled brook
which babbles in utter delight.
She is in the fireflies that dance
in the twinkle of the night.
She is in the gentle rain
where out of the mist it falls.
She is in the loons mournful cry
as it soulfully sadly calls.
She is in the warmth
of a late afternoon's calming breeze.
She is in the rustle of
the teetering swaying trees.
In the floating air
her intoxicating scent will carry.
Then you will know that she is there
the awaking renewed
©Elizabeth Ann Bushey