Member Rara Avis
Smoking deep and lazily,
I notice that she dances, floats
the same as the first snow of winter.
One bright crystal spinning down
through the dark, a moth in lights,
down to touch the waiting street.
Oh, the fog rises from fields,
the trees are cut-outs, gray signposts
lifting toward the remnant sun.
Their covered limbs in arrayed ice,
dripping frozen in remains.
Those trees lay straight into the rays
as she passes, dancing down.
Wanton melt is what she wants,
and as she touches down, receives.
She takes the ciggy from my hand,
draws a deep and playful taste,
and through her eyes, I know she knows.
[This message has been edited by bsquirrel (09-10-2003 03:44 PM).]