Sheldon and Shelly met daily, at dawn.
He'd traverse the hedgerow and creep through the lawn.
Shy Shelly quite rarely came down from her tree;
a delicate beauty, most snails would agree.
So Sheldon, a gentleman oozing with charm,
slid out Shelly's branch, where he offered his arm
and held up a parasol speckled with dew
he'd grabbed as he passed where the Baby's Breath grew.
Its spider web weavings partitioned the glare
from bright summer sunbeams that heated the air.
As fog swirled then faded like thin, liquid smoke,
above the slow stream the two sat and they spoke
of travels by night and what plants filled the fields,
the rich, scented taste that a tender rose yields,
of, when the fruit ripened, how sweet life would be
for nibbling while nuzzling right here in her tree.
While Sheldon ate well from the streambed below,
and frequented fields where the vegetables grow,
his Shelly preferred her tall tree, high and dry.
Yet, up on their branch the two saw eye to eye.
Yes, she preferred fungus, he damp mossy greens.
The pair, poised in this most romantic of scenes,
agreed that despite dwelling hours apart,
if love is afoot, all trails lead to the heart.
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