| Winter Conversation | |
| by Joyce Wakefield | |
I listen to you explain the difference between a right brain thought and a left. I am distracted by the smell of cold on your face. I lick it away like a child with an ice cream cone sticky fingers and sweet tongue. Aware that I have been here before I pause in your words. I have slept in this flesh, dreamed these winter bones. Waking in the darkness between us I hear frost sweeping the porch, edging toward the morning. I reach for your hand. What, you whisper, voice hoarse with dream. My lips, swollen with you, cold, are silent. |
THE FIRST BOOKE OF THE FAERIE QVEENE. Contayning THE LEGENDE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE RED CROSSE, OR OF HOLINESSE.
LO I the man, whose Muse whilome did maske, As time her taught, in lowly Shepheards weeds, Am now enforst a far vnfitter taske, For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine Oaten reeds, And sing of Knights and Ladies gentle deeds; Whose prayses hauing slept in silence long, Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds To blazon broad emongst her learned throng: Fierce warres and faithfull loues shall moralize my song. Helpe then, ™ holy Virgin chiefe of nine, Thy weaker Nouice to performe thy will, Lay forth out of thine euerlasting scryne The antique rolles, which there lye hidden still, Of Faerie knights and fairest Tanaquill, Whom that most noble Briton Prince so long Sought through the world, and suffered so much ill, That I must rue his vndeserued wrong: O helpe thou my weake wit, and sharpen my dull tong. And thou most dreaded impe of highest Ioue, Faire Venus sonne, that with thy cruell dart At that good knight so cunningly didst r