Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady's slipper. Your knees are a southern breeze -- or a gust of snow. Agh! what sort if man was Fragonard? -- as if that answered anything. Ah, yes -- below the knees, since the tune drops that way, it is one of those white summer days, the tall grass of your ankles flickers upon the shore -- Which shore? -- the sand clings to my lips -- Which shore? Agh, petals maybe. How should I know? Which shore? Which shore? I said petals from an appletree. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FACADE: 24. AN OLD WOMAN LAMENTS IN SPRINGTIME by EDITH SITWELL ODE ON MELANCHOLY by JOHN KEATS AN HYMN TO THE EVENING by PHILLIS WHEATLEY FRANCE; THE 18TH YEAR OF THESE STATES by WALT WHITMAN SHIRK OR WORK? by GRACE BORDELON AGATE THE KNITTING by MARGARET BARBER THE SHEPHERD O' THE FARM by WILLIAM BARNES |