From the vast expanse of pale cream, a ray pierced the sill
Some say that’s the epitome of ill.
Never did she utter such trope
And never did she hear a dawn's rising chirp.
Sans a countenance that evoked despair or drivel,
she did glide o'er cold Earth cavorting joy.
Encumbered by the shooing words of a restless few
and her held wish of an inside hue
began she a ritual of healthy hoy.
Words that gushed forth like water in a meadow’s pump,
Though never held captive by a day's dump
Did stem on a lad's cloy.
To say that one impacted the other
is to clutch a long straw with baby paw.
Another ritual of a weekly shed
Did in itself a worldly good
To the lasses linked by blood.
As do rays that die
in ‘tensity to pierce,
So did her days die
through sleep's propensity to reassess.
Wished I of activities that unwaste my youth
Wished she of leisure that was her joy's hearth.
And so, our saga of disagreement attains troth.
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