O’ my heart: my precious;
I am part of the leaves emollient rustling,
Ebullient, I sift through the foraying meadows bustling.
I hold stern and plunge with the water where the ground bleeds,
Frolicking, I play with the fish nigh the reeds.
I do dance and prance through the eaves procacious,
Defiantly, do I scowl at the abyss with a breast loquacious.
I am a part of the pristine white on the frugal rock,
And the foliage that rebels undaunted, the frigid do they mock.
I swathe in the smell of petrichor by the sea,
I coddle the hatchling, cooped, persevering, with a glee.
I genuflect before the Titan land hovering with a just wreath,
And I bring the tide that crashes punctilious with its canines underneath.
Riding the Sundays that encroach the lifeless spectre,
I am part of the flora, reeling in it, which flaunts its nectar.
I scoot with the elated man who with love is beguiled,
And sigh endearingly, at the wronged soul who still smiled.
Do not seek me amidst the sepulchres of void,
I stumble, I amble, I am not there, I did not die.
.
