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.