The Milking Maid Poem by James McLain

In dawn's embrace, she strolls the dew-kissed fields,
Her tender touch, to morning's yield.

Silken hair, a cascade of midnight's grace,
Soft hands whispering, love's gentle trace.

Beneath the boughs where shadows fade,
She moves with ease, the milking maid.

Her breath, a sigh in the cool, crisp air,
Her eyes, a promise, a daring dare.

Each motion, slow, deliberate, kind,
Her touch, a whisper, to the bovine mind.

Sunrise glows upon her skin,
A dance of light, where dreams begin.

The rhythm of her work, a sacred song,
A timeless dance, where she belongs.

Her form, a curve of pure delight,
In the gentle dawn, she milks the night.

In every glance, a story told,
Of warmth, and care, and hearts of gold.

The world awakens to her tender art,
The milking maid, with a lover's heart.