It spoke but not to me....

Open me with supple grace,
A perturbation slight or a little flick,
A friendly poke with a fiddle-stick,
And let me flow in open space.

I shall cross hedges, incise barb-wires,
A fox's stealth gulps every noise,
Velvet paws and majestic poise,
Beauty beheld by the one who aspires!

I shall sit beside on autumn's day,
Sketch faces and colour them well,
Each to contrive a different spell,
Until the spring chronicles in May.

But you shall return for I don't move,
I shall age but only to rise,
I shall fall only to reprise,
The words on my epitaph-
that you were set to prove.