There is a place, where velvet
Emerald moss blankets ancient rocks,
Shaded by myriad multifarious lush trees,
With which the rocks fancifully coalesce
To artfully raise walls, a secret path an arch,
Beneath which flows, a torrent,
Its voice, gentle yet puissant,
Vigorously speaks of ardour and passion,
Fabling tales of eternal zeal,
As turquoise water streams
Through rumbling pebbles,
Smoothed by a wet caress, perpetual,
It plays, creating puny whirlpools, tickles
Swaying algae, strands of green angel hair,
Whilst weeny amber fish defy the current
To hide, under violet pickerelweed,
Where damselflies of electric blue
Take repose, I gaze and marvel and as I do
Afore nature galore bewildered I rest,
Espying glimpses of the sapphire sky,
Cerulean hues betwixt dancing peridot leaves,
Dwelling with unshakable gloom, despite
Beauty and blessings bestowed upon me,
On why my sole desire may not be fulfilled.

[Featured photo: Poggio Conte, Italy]