It is the first snow. Scores
of graying juniper berries dip
under the weight of a cotillion
of so many icy maidens
huddling on the rotunda.
These ladies bring nothing
but a myth of symmetry. Maybe
midweek, enough sun will
bring them to tears, drop them
all among the gravel. A thaw
will wrestle them into gin.
They’ll carve a poem
in the slope
of my face.
(Daily Spam 11.7.11)
0 comments:
Post a Comment