Monday, January 10, 2011


she was a Celtic air
with her feet twirling warmth into sunset skies
he was tuft of fallen snow
blown crisp and pure on stinging skin
she would bend to kiss him
and he would bow his reverence
she was a princess with never a crown
he was a child of weather
with too much of the cold holding him down


Laurel said...

You had me at the photo.

Margaret said...

I can see both of them in that awesome photo.

Beautiful poem and pic!!

Anonymous said...

Nice flow to this.

Shadow said...

again, the image you draw is most excellent!

PixieDust said...

Your words are so poignant, I felt the sway of their passage upon the breeze...



Oddyoddyo13 said...

Whoa. This is one of those poems you think you've got the meaning of...and then, BAM! you're like, "Okay, never mind. It's so much better NOT knowing". You know what I'm saying? No?


Anonymous said...

Laurel, sometimes you see something outside the window, and you have to take it, right?

Margaret, very cool! :) That's exactly how the poem was conceived. I saw them too.

Jeanette, thanks! And welcome to Clarity. :)

Shadow, from one image weaver to another.

PixieDust, very beautiful. :) You sensed the atmosphere.

Oddyoddyo13, no, I get it. I speak stream-of-consciousness, you know.

the walking man said...

It is a Celtic trait to take the warmth when you can and endure the rest.

It is an interesting verse.

Anonymous said...

Walking Man, I like that observation. I hold that trait in high regard.

Anonymous said...

that would make a great book cover.

anne frasier

Erratic Thoughts said...

That was just s-p-l-e-n-d-i-d, standing by each letter of that word...
Loved it!