The Lady from Sibiu (Sonnet #4)

Whistling, walking within the cover of fog
A fog that silently moves with unseen ease
The Lady’s soul, succumbing to the clog
That trods upon stone wet with winter freeze

Protecting painted toes and rose-red lips
That lingers, with leased love, afore cold-camera calls
Replete with dime-fed messages and untold quips
As her “mother-soul” hears her child alone, fall

The child, just four, crawls across palm-wood floors,
With coconut-husked shine, for the love, for Mother