Noble folds of fabric waterfall to the dusty ground
but the elders do not mind their dirtied hems
for their place is not to fuss nor tidy nor maintain
but to protect and become wealthy in nature's bounty

Low, lilting, murmuring hums of bees
intertwined with the richer, sweeter whisper of lutes
rising like newborn hawks on spring's first breath
but then cooing like brown doves, forgotten

Red-hot coals lift the honey scent of tea enticingly
encouraging those buzzing bees to sing and dance
shy swallows flutter and flit to rest in a mulberry bush
a heron preens herself, expecting of this season's tawdry romance

One wizened old tree stands, mother nature's own sheltering arms
the only woman who is seen as an equal, worth of respect
of her nothing is ordered or expected or required
yet her nurturing branches guard her children from the sun