The stinging, cold rain falls
Upon the sleeping
Forest though none touches
The fallen leaves lying
Beneath the deep green canopy of tall and proud old oak trees
She
Wakes
Where the rain has not fallen
And stretches
Her naked and tattooed body and stands
Up to meet
The pale morning sun rising
Over the deep cold river running
At the foot of the mountain she slept
Upon
She
Plucks
A red apple from the swaying
Branch of the apple tree she passes
And bites
To taste
The sweetness of the fruit to be enjoyed
On her journey to the river running
Where she sits
Beside the bank and dangles
Her feet in the water washing
The dust from her tired toes
She
Removes
Her tattered burlap sack from her shoulder and sets
It on the bank and opens
It to find
Her small and worn guitar prepared for playing
And she gently strums
Sitting
By the river at the foot of the mountain of the forest in the sun
She plays her melody and prays that spring will never pass