She wore the meekness and grace of the gods and was shapely beyond compare. In that pageant aura, had about her the fearless abandon of Diana At The Bath. I did not spy on her, for fear I could lose my sight. Nor did I tell on her, for the wind would tell on me. I stood in the beam but would not blush. Flushed of glow, I offered to perish in the consuming light than vanish under it.
Though in high tropics I lived, in her found my wintering grounds. Retiring but not retired, on my snow laden divan. Under my bare feet from wall to wall, a deep carpet spread. With the bubbly crunch of ice, tickled the toes. Below a bed white, the plinth skirted a double wide Spring Master. Obliterating the horizon beyond, was a sprawling field, our Arctic park. Shuttered in the angle of iceberg Pyramids, and threatening the most horrible avalanche thereof, was a pile of laundry. Frosted panes on a French window, shut out a moulded balcony that stood over the torpid town. In the cubicle, a shower rose bends stiff necked. Hails forth radiant aerated rain. Icicle tiles and a hailstones, hailstones and icicle tiles. All around laid on and laid down, as the two door silver Samsung would lay on and lay down. My narrow snow laden divan.