The Not-Quite-A-Sonnet-Sonnet

Over hill, over my wail/ Through fog, and dale,/ Over pink, comes the night,/ Through verdant exhale,/ Willow bends and whispers,/ Swallows powder on the moon,/ Swerve in light shadows,/ Give the soul up and swoon,/ The bite of the wind can not be seen:/ Through blue borage in water her heart is born,/ Its petals and wings we deeply mourn,/ Those emeralds winking, woodsy ferns/ Her freckles dance tonight from here,/ And land upon the blossom’s ear,/ Goodnight, soft clouds, you make no sound,/ Our girl, her dust and voice now sleep underground.