Lingering, lengthening, lavender shadows,
softly sadden the snow.
Rowdy clouds and swirling flurries,
shadows slide ’cross slithering drifts.
The sun crawls around the low horizon,
drip-torching flames.
Inuit stalk Inukshuk statues,
their black and white parkas,
eclipsing the horizon flares.
A tiny silhouetted sapling,
whipping in the winter wind,
makes a mile-long shadow,
across the creek, over the clearing,
and far into the woods.
In the shadow of faraway mountains,
slate blue flares pink, then fades.
Deep trails flood and fill
with violet blue.
Sunny valley bottoms,
are squeezed up into the starry sky,
until all the shadows touch,
and the world is still.


The sun rose on fields
snow blown and misted
ghostly swirls and dervishes.
No fog this–––
for fog simply lies.
No–––this was living
as it arched and twisted,
fingering out to the road
and reaching for me
like the shade of a beloved friend.
There was white inside,
trying to seep out of pores,
I felt it strain
trying to mesh and meld
with this sentient wraith
fingers touching
joining
and suddenly
I am the morning mist
dancing in the crystal air.

For blood grown thin
forty Fahrenheit is Siberia —
breezes suddenly blue
and brittle
shiver through citrus leaves —
a birdsong
bleak and offkey
chills our sense —
sunlight, pale and tentative,
shelters us from shade
where wisps of vapor
from our mouths recall
northern winter breath
thicker than cigarette smoke,
that reminds us:
Death owns a time share here
and watches,
dressed in warm-ups,
from his lanai.

小房子好可爱哟

谢谢姑娘！其实这是我们的假期英语作业……= =

....虽然不太懂。。。但是很厉害。。。

这姑娘肯定嫁人了