Testing:
One,
Two,
Three,
Four,
Sibilance,
Sibilance,
Hello,
Hell­o
Yo!

My story ends of sparkle,
Hands, winding me in fable
The dark lines of her lashing eyes
Are burning rings, shear ice,
Covering the lost ponds of spring,
To see her in the ripening fields
Is to know the myriad colours
Of flowers, wild with loneliness,
She is always numbering the days,
Always on parade, hair, with out end,
Tresses trailing the wind.

After autumn storm  .  .  .
Red and golden leaves threaded,
  .  .  .  Floating on sun pond.

Day flowers open  .  .  .
At night close into themselves,
  .  .  .  As my heart remains.

The fall of any man is
hid
in forbidden things.

Drip drop the whiskey drops,        
shattered glass,
broken heart,    
consciousness lost,
but faith not,          
I see myself lying on the cold bedded rock..

Little tawny buds  .  .  .
After winter spring sparkles,
  .  .  .  Freckles on her face.

Gnarled twigs, eyes of owl  .  .  .
Blood blooms from feather and fur,
  .  .  .  Flowers of the moon.

Dreams lost when waking,
Sea spray, tangled kelp wafting,
  .  .  .  Briny taste of her.

Spring morning mist swirls,
Flowers twirling in the sun,
  .  .  .  Dizzy bees buzzing.

Sun of early spring,
Joyous— we walk on water,
Minnows under ice.

Must vanity reign,
To sully music, poetry,
As it falls from sky?