Here The Chill Is Dance Itself. Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
Here The Chill Is Dance Itself.
Auberges of snow
And frozen chill
From the apex of the trees
Hang
In Hastings Gardens
Lighted by moon rays
starlight
To slightly swinging lamps.
A Saint Vitus dance without any ill.
But joy and hopping wide.
Hurry
For nigh the end of May
It be
Now
Do not tarry.
Chill shall be a past soon
Spring
And
Summer
Inter-regnia temporary.
Sunday, November 5, 2023
Topic(s) of this poem: gardens
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8/28/2026 8:07:12 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
