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Fine and smooth are Autumnal rains.
That pine to soothe, then, wipe away,
the whipped raze of zealous rays,
that crack and blister over staves,
and under paves.
Proud and boastful in Summer days.

The wilds remove bare, insomnal cage,
a skyblue booth, when, white turns grey,
as drips came, quelled was jealous rage.
A blackened vista, covers brave,
bands thunder made.
Loud unroast on wondrous scape.

A cleansed motif oozed,

to bless this age.

Sent is relief’s truce;

cerule whet’s mage.

© poormansdreams

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