In a meadow
rich with Spring’s first grass unclipped,
she pulls the cape around her closer
as March with fingers long and thin
would claim it.
Golden hair and dress aswirl;
a sprite caught in the breath
of a storm approaching.
A tinge of blush and sweet smile’s grace,
her face a study of innocence.
She plucks a daffodil
tucks it behind her ear, a child
of the moor’s wild freedom
racing the storm clouds