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
11 comments:
You had me at the photo.
I can see both of them in that awesome photo.
Beautiful poem and pic!!
Nice flow to this.
again, the image you draw is most excellent!
Your words are so poignant, I felt the sway of their passage upon the breeze...
:-)
(((hugs))),
me
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?
Fine.
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.
It is a Celtic trait to take the warmth when you can and endure the rest.
It is an interesting verse.
Walking Man, I like that observation. I hold that trait in high regard.
that would make a great book cover.
anne frasier
That was just s-p-l-e-n-d-i-d, standing by each letter of that word...
Loved it!
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