PREVIOUS NEXT FIRST ODE, To The Winds of Winter, The winds of Winter with their effete hands...


To The Winds of Winter
Gainsborough's The Harvest Wagon
The winds of Winter with their effete hands
pounding in softness the sybarite lands
gather in gossamer, and mount
protean charges (tantamount
to nothing: for even the twig withstands
the winds of Winter's fount).

Soon now the World will be awake (weary
and sluggard) from its pale cemetery-
Night: Sunbeams wafting their hues/quaff
scattering it like barley draff
over the solferino vagary
of its auroral strafe

while th'winds of Winter with their cracker air
flirt arabesquely with the prickly-pear
leaf-notions on Life's window-sill
and wild scents of burnt daffodil
field-dapplers of cold Morning's twilight-glare
come now over the hill

of rooftops careless to the Winter's wind:
Woman-like aromas heart-warmly spun
up bustling, vacant streets & halls,
down the sad, spurious thickets-walls
lining the walks, around the yards, behind
the empty ferns-rimmed Malls

cool winds of Winter spurn the froths of snow
clinging onto trees' deathblow & adagio
swinging or inclining breezes
which in myriad bursting pieces
come to rest before the calm punctilio
of their own caprices!

while: Th'winds of Winter transmigrate around
the flections of The Dawn's hickory ground
with flippant Joy & Cock's crows come
scorching in Cold Delirium--
wistful: the windmill Autumn sirvente Sound
dying in its Hope's hum!

Then: polliwog chortling & bedizen trees
trapeze the shimmering & shilly-shally breeze
up to each playing/playful dinter
& from swaying onto swaying stinter
Proof! there's that first Winter's morning: Peace!
Peace with the winds of Winter