the Pale Winter
Still soft but icy is the morn
On and within my guessing lips.
The downdrifts of the night before
Ghost under mattress to my floor —
The snow's attachment, fingers torn
From without over my breath wisp —
Still soft but icy is the morn
On and within my guessing lips.
- a little different from a regular triolet;
it just ended up this way, if you
can still call it a triolet.
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