Though the mountains lie far
From these Carolina plains,
White clouds, their loosened swirls,
Accost the tall and swaying pines
With such shape and grace,
Pressing downward,
As though in longing.
As if that silent beauty from above
Yearned to be held—
Held and stirred
By that coniferous hairbrush—
That it might release
An outpouring of rain’s crystalline lines
Upon those teasels
Teasing at its cloth and scarf,
Falling at last
Upon such resin-soft,
oil-painted wood.
No comments:
Post a Comment