First came her argent song,
a delicate tintinnabulation.
Her crystalline chimes a revelation pervading my slumber,
silvering my sleep.
She arose before me in my dream,
Kindly, divinely,
pine needles twined her elegant arms, agleam,
dewy, delicate like the finest lace,
She reached upward, in invocation, offering grace.
Genevieve, protectress of the twin pines that shade my rooms.
Madonna to woodland beings that thrive within her blooms.
Her eyes, the jade of hummingbirds’ wings,
Her cheeks the blush of a robin’s breast.
And her lips, trembling with the weight of being.
“Be still,” she sings.
“Lift grateful eyes.”
“Listen,” she croons.
“Lay bare your ears.”
“Cherish.”
She vanishes in a rush of invisible wings,
and yet, still, I hear her sing.
Prompt: In honor of the "aisling," an Irish poetic form, write a poem that recounts a dream or vision, and in which a woman appears who represents or reflects the area in which you live.
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