Head out across the meadow, Towards a nesting Sparrow’s spot. Up about a hill, where a muse awaits— Aldridge, with a melody that’s not forgot.
She hums a tune without a song, A rhythm right, but something’s wrong. She speaks in riddles, soft and low, In search of words to make her glow.
She’s dressed in white, in blooms adorned, With petals soft and fabric warmed. Approach with care, and maybe then, She’ll share the path ahead again.