Its leaves like petals of tissue
Greenhearted and gaudy pink
At the extremities and moving
Frightened and fast in wind
And the song of it to the eye
Is sundown and swandown and
Burning at the eighteenth hour
The cool white of it seeming
Shreds of papier snagged on
A tree of radiating wires that
The wind is teasing gradually
Away and the pale cool is
Living somehow in the pink
That strains hotly to the eye
A snow within a livid skin.
No comments:
Post a Comment