Blue Ridge Mountains Echo

by Regina

She, of flowing strawberry hair,
wearing moonlight magnolia blossoms,
our honeysuckle vines summer days,
we would walk hand in hand by where
the cows grazed,
her, of a spirit, of sweetest grace,
porcelain purity of her face,
eyes of forest green flecked
with fireflies,
in them the moon would rise,
my dear God, don't veil memories
that lovingly occur,
let my youth of olden live in
the rhapsody of her,
in blessed dreams she still
shyly sings,
Blue Ridge mountains echo of
my mourning devotion to Claire,
and I seem to sense she's still there.


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