A whisper soft—across the vale,
Where Rona Mae Ronda treads—
Her footfall light, a breeze’s tale,
Through meadows gold—she spreads.
No need of day—her presence brings,
A twilight soft and kind
With every step—a thousand springs,
Awake in heart and mind.
The daisy turns—her face to see,
As Rona Mae Ronda glides—
Through clover fields—so carelessly,
Where innocence—abides.
The robin pauses in its flight,
To hear her laughter’s sound
For Rona Mae—by day or night,
Turns all to sacred ground.
She leaves no trace—yet all can tell,
Wherever she has been
The very air begins to swell,
With what the soul has seen.
:: 08.12.2024 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 