Sometimes, you dare not *feel*...
how could the soft snows bear to touch me?
Golden streetlights fade the night to lavender,
snow to crystalline angel-down,
And I, who reek of August-dawns,
fall in love with a Februarine night.
Snow is so aloof.
(I may or may not melt, landing on tarmac.
I fall with the wind; who cares
enough to pitter-patter, to splash-tango?)
Psychotically pure. As if the heavens
sanctified each and every miniscule
spiderweb of ice.
Under baptismal white, there lies
a wild tangle, brown grey, waiting
for some promised land of verdance, of
innocent cabbage moths in spearmint. It's not
pagan, just a wild kind of
perfection. But snow suggests
timid violence, resenting thunder's
insistent placidity, and the way that I
Owe my first allegiance to the sun.
and I wonder
How the numb snow bears my passion:
how my harsh tongue bears its softness;
Why thunder and snow do not embrace
anywhere but in my heart;
And I, still laced with August's dawns,
fall in love with a Februarine night
how could the soft snows bear to touch me?
Golden streetlights fade the night to lavender,
snow to crystalline angel-down,
And I, who reek of August-dawns,
fall in love with a Februarine night.
Snow is so aloof.
(I may or may not melt, landing on tarmac.
I fall with the wind; who cares
enough to pitter-patter, to splash-tango?)
Psychotically pure. As if the heavens
sanctified each and every miniscule
spiderweb of ice.
Under baptismal white, there lies
a wild tangle, brown grey, waiting
for some promised land of verdance, of
innocent cabbage moths in spearmint. It's not
pagan, just a wild kind of
perfection. But snow suggests
timid violence, resenting thunder's
insistent placidity, and the way that I
Owe my first allegiance to the sun.
and I wonder
How the numb snow bears my passion:
how my harsh tongue bears its softness;
Why thunder and snow do not embrace
anywhere but in my heart;
And I, still laced with August's dawns,
fall in love with a Februarine night