Further
Tell me why this frowning cloud sinks to press, to wilt my sunny, blooming further hills, bowing for the whim, for that demurely hostile crescent moon of darker light. Not mine, this lower, crying cloud, but drifts upon as from a foreign wake to bring a shadowed sight, groping through the misty, melancholic view of tear strained eyes toward all too bright further hills. Painting and Poem (c) 1990 Jennifer Butler Sign in to see full entry.