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.


No comments:

when trees as gilded as bees

Above the 61st parallel, the colors of Autumn mark our parting with the bees, and the last days of real warmth. I had begun to transl...

popular on this site