Pick the flower

Pick the flower Maiden Trill, the descant tone to play
the part. She fills her heart the better against the leaves at
feet who rot. Coloured brown the engines roar a shaking
soil beneath her feet. She splays about the doughty arms
their meat shaking whilst she dance. A wiry woman she is
today a strength to forest about this way: inside the
green of trees. Fear was there about the air suffocating
those who thought, their simple minds fretting a lot
when ground could give to death or worse: the pain would
carry some too far. Imaginations let to course a wonder
'bout the days décor. Why not pick the flower part-to-part,
a finished course of the dissipating plot.