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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=428449" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>California Winter</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">It is winter in California, and outside<br>Is like the interior of a florist shop: <br>A chilled and moisture-laden crop<br>Of pink camellias lines the path; and what<br>Rare roses for a banquet or a bride, <br>So multitudinous that they seem a glut! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A line of snails crosses the golf-green lawn<br>From the rosebushes to the ivy bed; <br>An arsenic compound is distributed<br>For them. The gardener will rake up the shells<br>And leave in a corner of the patio<br>The little mound of empty shells, like skulls.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">By noon the fog is burnt off by the sun<br>And the world's immensest sky opens a page<br>For the exercise of a future age; <br>Now jet planes draw straight lines, parabolas, <br>And x's, which the wind, before they're done, <br>Erases leisurely or pulls to fuzz.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It is winter in the valley of the vine.<br>The vineyards crucified on stakes suggest<br>War cemeteries, but the fruit is pressed, <br>The redwood vats are brimming in the shed, <br>And on the sidings stand tank cars of wine, <br>For which bright juice a billion grapes have bled.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And skiers from the snow line driving home<br>Descend through almond orchards, olive farms.<br>Fig tree and palm tree - everything that warms<br>The imagination of the wintertime.<br>If the walls were older one would think of Rome: <br>If the land were stonier one would think of Spain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But this land grows the oldest living things, <br>Trees that were young when Pharoahs ruled the world, <br>Trees whose new leaves are only just unfurled.<br>Beautiful they are not; they oppress the heart<br>With gigantism and with immortal wings; <br>And yet one feels the sumptuousness of this dirt.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It is raining in California, a straight rain<br>Cleaning the heavy oranges on the bough, <br>Filling the gardens till the gardens flow, <br>Shining the olives, tiling the gleaming tile, <br>Waxing the dark camellia leaves more green, <br>Flooding the daylong valleys like the Nile.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Karl+Shapiro">Karl Shapiro</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=428449" data-title="California Winter de Karl Shapiro" data-description="It is winter in California, and outside
Is like the interior of a florist shop: 
A chilled and moisture-laden crop
Of pink camellias lines the path; and what
Rare roses for a banquet or a bride, 
So multitudinous that they seem a glut! 

A line of..."></div>
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