The Milking Maid
In dawn's embrace, she strolls the dew-kissed fields,
Her tender touch, to morning's yield.
Silken hair, a cascade of midnight's grace,
Soft hands whispering, love’s gentle trace.
Beneath the boughs where shadows fade,
She moves with ease, the milking maid.
Her breath, a sigh in the cool, crisp air,
Her eyes, a promise, a daring dare.
Each motion, slow, deliberate, kind,
Her touch, a whisper, to the bovine mind.
Sunrise glows upon her skin,
A dance of light, where dreams begin.
The rhythm of her work, a sacred song,
A timeless dance, where she belongs.
Her form, a curve of pure delight,
In the gentle dawn, she milks the night.
In every glance, a story told,
Of warmth, and care, and hearts of gold.
The world awakens to her tender art,
The milking maid, with a lover’s heart.
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