My Snow Laden Divan

My Snow Laden Divan prose poem

Photo by The Consortium

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.

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