A/N: My feeble attempt to describe the eternal summer where my lovely muse resides and to which she often lures me to escape the mundane of my life and feast on the riches of her lush idea fruits. How I enjoy those jaunts.

Immortal Nocturne

The burning beacons of light
From a thousand light years past:
The memories of which I can recall
In intangible feelings of recognition.

These night-fairies call
In voices sparkling sweet
For my muse to come out
And play in the shimmering pools
Of their dew drop incandescence.

The night is my hour of trysting
With the unnamed lovers
Of my often-illicit
Paper and pen.

Illuminated by the sky's nocturnal angels
My muse looses her hair,
Throws up her hands,
And runs barefoot
Through moist summer grasses
Even when winter's casualties
Peek, withered and brown,
From beneath the unyielding
Blanket of ignorant white.

I track her progress
Through alternating pockets
Of light and dark,
Sometimes losing her
Among the shifting gowns of shadows,
But she always finds me again
And patiently waits
For my delayed pace to catch up.

Then my hand
She grasps in hers
And with open eyes and ears
My muse and I
Speed off into the immortal night.