She waits in battlefield of gray
For knight to come and wield his sword
And spring to come with lovely word
As dawn with word lifts high the day.
A pristine princess of the wood,
Her earnest eyes stare with no sound;
Her root is true and probes rich ground
In search of waters pure and good.
I join her in the depths of soul,
Knowing I shall never win her,
For she has won my dearest tear
As roots do deepest drop from soil.
Eric M. Vogt, Copyright 2013