Summer Fair

 

 

On July 1st, I wore my first festival dress.

In snowy lace folded between shards of rose and ice,

like spring breaking free from winter.

My gloves, newly-riven snow or perhaps dove’s wings,

gilded with silver morning

dewy in youth and recklessness,

soon to be torn or ruined.

My shoes, black hooves, like a kid jumping on rocks

a green stream underneath.

My cloak, a cold phoenix, burning with ice,

aflame with the chill of expectant love.

Inlaid, gold lining, a tracery of heaven,

flitting like pollen or moth’s feet,

the handiwork of too much time.

I am a lily, new with moss,

queening her silver, gold and opal,

aflame and ashen, ancient and new

O whom do we owe,

a theme timeless as beauty itself.

 

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