This is a quiet day, wherein I have done nothing. Insofar as the blog, I can merely post this new poem, which seems typical to me.
I remember the walk through the green face
Of Northampton, immersed in the white dew
Of that June morn (I dreamt it was Anjou).
Your face, soft as ash from old Queen Anne's Lace
_____enlivened God's day.
Our wait for twelve was passed below that blue,
That sacred place of soft clouds of pollen.
All her flowers at their prime, among them you
Especially, I'd forgot you'd fallen
The rhyme scheme may be pitiful, but my poem, my rules. This work's virtue's are its accuracies. Never have I described the Athens of New England so well; it really is that pretty around this time of the year.