Monday, November 18, 2013

Song of an Arctic Tern

When air scented with the breath of pineapple groves
Lingers near the limbs of an icy Sitka rose,
See the thorn-tree shuddering, hear Frost crack his whip.
Spare, somber seneschal, a pair of Rosa's hips!

Agate-eyed ice diadems in crystals crackle,
Frosty fraternities in formations fractal.
Sleep, Rosamunda, snow showers you with kisses,
Heed not the zephyr--sweet the North wind's cold hisses.


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En plein air - in memoriam Andrew Bellon

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