Tuesday, January 28, 2014

windy corner

When the door's ajar,
Sleep is a blank page
Imprinted by dreams
Meandering through
The night-meadows,
Where the sea-air flits,
Yearns to grant a kiss
To your wise, wise eyes--

You, wild violet stealth
Born of fiercest chill,
Grass of Parnassus,
Absurd blue poppies,
Shattering cold rocks
On a slate scree slope.








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