I sing of a matchless maiden
who sat in a garden of roses
head bent,
quietly reading
when a moonflower vine grew up around her
crept round her feet
curled up her ankles
encircled her waist
twined itself through her arms and hair
a white petal resting on her cheek
at last the maiden sighed
moon and flower bloomed and glowed
and the night was arrayed with its delicate scent
the last page read, the moon set, book and flower closed,
and the maiden slept


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Way to go!
