The Winter Fern
Presumably ovid,
with qualm,
wit, and wisdom,
as to the smallest orb,
give way to our
very own,
Christendom.
As horn-mad, to
fetch me about,
the Kings, they play
mighty,
their Queens,
a jester and pout.
Though ancient
as jointure, the merry
plenty they must,
with the lyric
of masterful lyre,
a temptation
of lust.
The beauty of
maidens,
the fullness
of their breasts,
made ever-virtuous.
As the sun sets,
vertigo,
the nestles
of primrose and cressets,
giving way to the lecherous.
Oh. . . the love,
of Jesus,
our very own,
the saintliness of Magdalene,
the diadems of
the Goddess throne.
Amidst a canonized
hearsed, our beloved
Sun, rightfully lets.
The essence and infinity
of Magdalene, again
a Nemean regrets.
As the green fonds
of the winter fern
shed its nurturing essence.
Waves of nostalgia blazened
by the mid-December
days ripening afternoon.
The snow covered pines,
the aroma of fresh coffee,
the feigned ecstasies
of the struggling artists
made fragile,
and at no attempt.
Piercing thoughts of verse,
no love made without quarrel.
The day began as it always does
in December,
amidst melancholy and sorrow.
Copyright © Trevor Morse | Year Posted 2006
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