Wednesday, April 18, 2012

December.




I was in Birmingham, Alabama, two, maybe three Decembers back. I walked into a coffee shoppe and there was this angel in moccasins and bell-bottoms with the longest, curliest dirty blonde hair you've ever seen. Anyway I wrote this for her. 






December
And the spy-glass blue
Sea of the sky
Is frozen still
Against its will

December
And the spun-gold sun
Sleeps longer
Dreams more often
Of his mistress spring

December
And the quick crisp fingers 
Of the mischievous wind
Undress the last
Of the modest maples

December
And I am thinking of your knit cap
And how you looked like
Winter’s only princess 
With a crown of freshly fallen snow


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