They rise beneath a haloed moon: the gusts Fragrant with ice, with pollen grains of snow, With spice of buried hay from long ago, With river-chill, with fallen cedar dusts, With tang of wood-smoke aspen, and the lusts Recalled from stained-glass canopies aglow With maple scarlets. From the past, I know The long-remembered scent a lover trusts. I breathe your essence of complexity, Your personal perfume of autumn cold And winter warmth, your mellow moods, your sauce, Your fascinating femininity And all the balm of kisses unforetold, That memory brings back to stir my loss. -- Saturday, December 06, 2014.
Posted on: Sat, 06 Dec 2014 11:07:34 +0000
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