16 May 2013

Lady in Waiting: a song of the seasons

The Masque of the Four Seasons (Walter Crane - 1903)

The lady's in waiting —
biding her springtimes, stumbling into a March gale,
willow eyes gazing from behind percale to the pale, pale of the moon.
Crystal jewels nestle in her gold-flecked hair.
(An April rain rests there.)
Soon a May sun twirls the strands into honeyed braids.
Green permeates the voice, yellow, the laugh.
A careful gaze will disclose the bells in her eyes.

The lady's in waiting
carrying with her the summer scent of lemon peel and mint leaves.
Glancing cooly into wind-chimed nights.
Is she a disguise for June evenings? with buttercups 'crosst her breasts,
elm branches in her palms, tea roses tangled in her lap,
and clover 'round her ankles?
Shining and lithe, a needle waltzes deftly with her ivory fingers
as crewel flowers unfold and an old owl appears.
Soft summer moons ride her shoulders into fall.

The lady's in waiting
holding the last limp fieldflower,
the moss around her lips making her September smiles earthy and brown;
She peers from her tower to the amber forest where Autumn is hating the birch.
Moorish gusts tumble her thoughts and curls,
their russet patterns like the descent of a brittle leaf.
She surrenders her flowery thighs to the October fog.
Her fingers press against the hesitant heart of an oak.
A late November thunderstorm washes her neck and wrists.

The lady's in waiting
waiting out her winter.
Gazing from a mantle of ginger nuts and beaver,
her snowy walk a whisper of satin footfalls, holly dangling over a cold ear.
Glinting like seaglass, her eyes search out a snowbird,
his frosty flight holding her crimson attention.
A slow blink flicks a snowflake from her eyelash.
A slow smile sheds December's fire and ice from her cheeks.
Candy canes dissolve now where once lemon ice melted.
She sits with her curtains parted to your gaze,
her galaxy eyes brimming over with the sun,
her enchanted forest mouth wooded with pine.
Lady Everything.

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