Maiden Trill

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 wilst 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 suffucating those who thought, their sentient minds fretting 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 decor. Why not pick the flower part-to-part, a finished course of the dissipating plot.