White Knights

Blanched Bones We’ve not dreamt the crystal morn, the tinkling ping of sun warmed ice, the egg white branch of lilac dipped, the magic of the wintry day which fills the heart with awe. Such days of silver ice and blue white snow the lancing spears of ‘cicle formed awake are we to majesty, that all too soon is gone. Gone in graceful austerity, a loveliness all its own, the white of skeleton, these beauteous bones. White Pages Within the pages white as snow and between the lines as black as coal, to all the places You have sowed, Oh Lord, let me abide within the line. Within the turning page we see. Alight, aflame in harmony. And friends or foes do go in mystery. Oh Lord, let me abide within the line. Let me alight in peace with Thee and Poe, with Kipling’s tales in Just So with Moses staff and Joseph’s sign Oh Lord, let me abide within the line. White Sugar in the Morning The Baker has glazes the brush today twined vines, the grasses, the forest's trees. He’s covers every hemlock with white, downy protection from every breeze The Baker’s glazes with soft snow of white like meringue upon every birch twig, His frosting covers the mountain's sides no glacial boulder or spruce is to big. He is top-dressing the architecture; He's polishing the acres of asphalt. Yes, the Baker’s glazing the world today He’s an artisan given to much thought.