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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476862" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Snow On The Eyelids Of The Pinecones</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Snow on the eyelids of the pine-cones.<br>Zen pagodas, meditating. Snow <br>on the withered stars of the wild rose hips<br>attaining the unattainable like Buddha<br>enlightened by what's become of Venus in the dawn. <br>Beauty in the truth of abject desolation. <br>There's a war going on somewhere <br>to judge from the number of amputations <br>the fingers, legs, arms, toes, hands, <br>the limbs of the dead trees<br>lying all over the ground as if the woods<br>were the collapsed tent <br>of an army field hospital in the Civil War.<br>The Fort Delaware Death Pen <br>if I were to take a wild guess, <br>or maybe Andersonville, who knows, <br>but I feel I'm walking more like a warden<br>doing his rounds through the woods at night <br>than a visitor among these who lie here<br>in this graveyard of wounded swans <br>glazed and broken like the handles <br>of old china shop teacups <br>butting their empty skulls<br>against the horns of a bull.<br>Not like mine. Pure crystal<br>from glassblowers in medieval Germany.<br>At least these get to thaw. <br>And you can see in the withered eyelids <br>of the leaves whose chlorophyll vision <br>was once poetically green, <br>now laced with strychnine and arsenic<br>when they burned like solar flares in the fall, <br>and the curtains caught fire<br>like the veils of an open window <br>with no one's face in it <br>to reveal the mystery of who she is <br>behind the northern lights, <br>the works of an entire lifetime<br>clacking like abandoned fortune-cookies, <br>the hollow carapaces of crabs across <br>the silver pates of the blunted snowdrifts <br>ground down like the Appalachian Mountains, <br>older than the Rockies, worn down <br>like molars and glaciers <br>grinding their teeth in their sleep<br>but infinitely more habitable <br>than the nose-bleeding heights of renown. <br>And yet the leaves are not wasted.<br>The word was spoken. <br>The fortune foretold <br>of better things to come<br>like pears and apples and plums.<br>The slow autumn dawns of poems<br>ripened by rising stars and falling flowers.<br>Snow on the eyelids of the pine-cones.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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Zen pagodas, meditating. Snow 
on the withered stars of the wild rose hips
attaining the unattainable like Buddha
enlightened by what's become of Venus in the dawn. 
Beauty in the truth of abject desolation. ..."></div>
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