Mirrors in Springtime
Who do you think you are, here, shoveling the sea,
Churning the sky to whip up butter-clouds,
Scrunching its blade into a funhouse grimace
To shove it through the gullet of the earth?
There's no going back!
You can't mop up the spring. You can't sand off
The rivery veneer that covers winter's vigor
Even to bare its murky cotton bones,
But there rush in chattering brief brilliant shards:
This is it. Throw down your antiquated instruments.
Suffer it to thunder by,
Until the world falls, dry and docile, in your lap.
Churning the sky to whip up butter-clouds,
Scrunching its blade into a funhouse grimace
To shove it through the gullet of the earth?
There's no going back!
You can't mop up the spring. You can't sand off
The rivery veneer that covers winter's vigor
Even to bare its murky cotton bones,
But there rush in chattering brief brilliant shards:
This is it. Throw down your antiquated instruments.
Suffer it to thunder by,
Until the world falls, dry and docile, in your lap.
About "this blog thing": j'aime bien ce ton décalé, not bad at all, on the contrary seems to me quite a refreshing way to blog. Donc à suivre, definately.
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