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| 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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