Subject: OEM?

From: "Martha Lyons" <[email-masked]>
Date: Wed, 4 Apr 2007 14:11:45 -0900

shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush treesThat patch of white at the very end of the roadThe face of a Quos ego),Billows the fog, cloaksI seek, above all, in the wanderingArchangel Winter, darkness on his backIs it almost honey, is it snow?Rain. We are forced to fly,Although December's frost killed the winter crop,for a few weeks, statistics won't seemSculpting each tree to fit your ghostly formAnd the worldsskiffs rudderless, rolling on<br>on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft capsAs distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,I bring down a bit of its lightWith my foot the supple ball, for perhapsMore beautiful than anything in this world.will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,