Thursday, July 27, 2006

Ode to Fan

A gentle whirr fills the air,
Stirs sluggish sylphs beyond my sight;
Banished heat and wispy hair,
Dance as it whispers in the night

Or the day, or morn, or in brutal noon.

Lovely muse your music play;
Ignore the dust that marrs your face.
Gratified with no delay;
Your mere existence speaks His grace.

A breeze created, cool, and none too soon.

2 comments:

Kyle said...

Hmmm, it's not HOT there, by any chance, is it?

Nice poem. Reading it reminds me of you (outside of the fact that you wrote it)... it's both silly and somehow artsy...ish... Two words, or at least one word and one semi-made up word, that I would probably use if ever asked to describe you.

Star said...

What? Hot? What ever gave you that silly notion?

Your description of me is acceptable, I suppose ;P