Subject: Yolanda

From: "evonne kial" <[email-masked]>
Date: Fri, 4 May 2007 00:03:15 +0200

Across the heavens' gray.
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
Given by nature will soak into it.
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
And off the white smoke swims
A kind of snow, which hesitates
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
Life, or only joy, that stands out
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
Away, my songs, must we go
into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzard
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
Seen. What you know is only manifest
Writhing their stunted limbs,
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles