Blight I

Pallor gold on the mountains;
Spring gold in the west;
Rosy gold on her away-turned face:
She is honey-tressed.

Amber sets the shadows;
The heifer’s withers gild;
Finches sparkle under leaves;
And the freshet’s filled.

Dionysus gifted me.
Gold fills her eyes like shells fill the sea.
Small flower in a garden, secret from me;
Primrose drifting on a saffron sea.

When yellow apples gorge the trees
And wheat locks drop in the light,
Search her umber smile, she smiles
The golden blight.

3 thoughts on “Blight I”

  1. Old poem.

    Turning things into gold with a touch–environmentally unsound and terribly, terribly isolating. Heavy metals.

    Watch out for those nickel-cadmium batteries or the newer nickel-metal hydride batteries in those hybrid vehicles, too.


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