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What Can One Do With a Bic Pen and a Bottle of Chianti?

Song

Low by fire light and gentle breeze,
Along the riverbank sat he,
And counted days that seemed to freeze
The blood that flow'd within him.

The branches quaked among the trees
As crouch'd he there on bended knee,
A raven croaked about the lees
A toad croak'd 'bout the shore's rim.

A storm roll'd past at ev'ning tide,
The lightning lit the evening sky,
And summer storms, they seemed to chide
The mourning that did haunt him.

Through the brushes she came astride
A mare that walk'd among the rye
And strolling there along beside
The fox that came to mock him.

And rising up from the fire side
He fix'd his eye the mounted sight,
She knell'd a song that did deride
The gloom that lurk'd within him.

Her notes rang soft about a bride
That came before the dawn's first light,
Who's confidence he put aside
And so his life would be dim.

Enchanted by her soulful notes,
He walked toward the stirring horse
And noticed not the silken oats
That grew among the sage brush;

Nor noted from the shored boats
The river had so swell'd it's course,
And swept away, the river gloats
As streams are want to so rush.

He let her down to soften'd ground,
The fox about them bounced and bound,
Their breasts together so did pound
As the stormheads roll on by.

So there upon the dewy mound,
The storm and river soak'd the ground,
Together they could not abound
Nor abate the angry sky.

So in the morning left he there
And mounted back upon her steed,
And straightened out her silken hair,
And left without a sound.

Awaken'd by the July air,
By river's course and river's reed,
He cursed then that they so did pair,
And he wept upon the mound.

posted by September @ 7:10 AM