Belle des fleurs

She’s that queen of swans

surrounded by a gaggle of geese

Miss nightingale

In as she’s breathes

The pulsating of her neck

are like speckles of glitter

waiting to exhale

Intensely sweet

Certainly not frail

When she exudes the power of her wings

The flutter of her feathers

equates to the might of her lioness

Pretty witty things

Through my pen’s sliver

I can feel the quiver from her river

Belle des fleur

How the eye’s on tour

for Penna…

Copyright © 2017 Bradley M. Tremmil

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