Buttermilk and blush and sherbet sun,
She hangs before my door, crept into bloom
In the last part of the season, bated light
Her dole. She is the consequence of thorns;
And her embrace the frigid air provides,
Preserves, as cruel and as perfect
In her place as would be a shard of snow.
She is more beautiful by the death of things.
The brown earth mantles her, and it shrouds her;
The leaves of red and yellow cast about
Her green like sunset on the summer sky
She's never known. I'll leave her hanging there.
Oh, but her petal-skin under my touch,
Water on melting ice, wet-satin brush...
recommend this
email
print
link to this page
Comments: 14
Edward- Thanks for noticing. :) I fell into the pentameter more or less by accident from the first line, but this piece seemed to benefit from a rigid frame.
Lovely poem...to see heaven in a wild flower.....