A broken stem,
Fewest petals that come to claim
The spots where no remain
To be there, as shadows.
The iris of her,
Her fingers possess each edge
As colored of orchids,
Dropping scents to a storm of grass,
Reeds, and porcelain daisies.
I run with the meadow’s touch,
Over a shoulder where holds no consign,
To the woes of many turnabouts.
On a cloak of fur
The specks of dust that come alive
To the speeches given of angels,
Along their wings, releasing shimmers.
A white spot,
A spell that enchants
The fairest maid whose face
Dances more than her legs.