Her hands are held by Winter, like the snow
That, diamond-like, adorns her slender dress,
A black and ragged thing, as though a crow
Of thread, and long-worn cloth, and harshly pressed
And secret creases, and a jagged seam
Had taken for itself a newer form,
Enchanting cloth as in some blackbird’s dream.
In dream is where the garment keeps her warm,
A place where Summer shines through open fields,
The fingertips of every Sun-lit breeze
Caressing leaves, all broad and green, like shields
Paired with the sword-limbs of immortal trees.
The fabric dances in the frost-scarred air
And folds its wings about her sun-streaked hair.
1 comment:
This is intriguing, especially with the long-running thought chasing itself from L1 through to L7. What is the significance of blackbirds, excepting the "four and twenty" baked in a pie, over the crows? Entering with the bitter chill yet delicate lacy imagery of Winter, "she" is garbed in pressed rags, yet dreaming of summer's treasure and carefree joys? Almost an orphan, buffeted by the winds "she" stands in a reverie? (My stupid ignorance trying in vain to comprehend.) Very interesting.
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