Winter is a snow blanket the world pulls up to its chin, And shivers.
Spring is the laundering and airing out of its linens,
The renewal and salvation of the cloth of life.
Summer the thirst, hanging out to parch in the sun.
We desert roses between thick air-conditioned pages to dry.
Fall the wearing of the world’s fruits, the harvest,
The gathering of plenty, and of thankful men.
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Comments: 16
Love it! Great imagery.
(One eensey-weensey, tiny thing, tho'... Did you mean "We DESSERT roses"? -- as in we leave them there and forget about them? -- or "DESERT roses" as in flowers from an arid place?) Just wondering in Northern California...
But, whatever you meant, I believe Pat M. is totally and completely correct in her assessment of (both) this work AND you, my friend... :^)
It's just that "Pat" is one of those names like "Chris" of which one can never be certain to which gender it refers... (and... besides... how could I know?)
No offense meant, Pat (or Ron...). I bet Pat runs into this a LOT...
I sure do... They always try to make "Jean" into "Gene" but, when I tell them, just for future reference, that "Gene" is a diminutive of "Eugene", I always get one of those blank stares sometimes followed by a distinctly blasse' "Oh".
WwW.SparkleTags.Com
That's really nice ... It would go good with a winter-time photo.
Oh, and the most important thing: Ron, this was very nice. I love the winter 'blanket' and then the 'airing out of linens' analagies.