I have a friend At the end Of the world. His name is a breath Of fresh air. He is dressed in Grey chiffon. At least I think it is chiffon. It has a Peculiar look, like smoke. It wraps him round It blows out of place It conceals him I have not seen his face. But I have seen his eyes, they are As pretty and bright As raindrops on black twigs In March, and heard him say: I am a breath Of fresh air for you, a change By and by. Black March I call him Because of his eyes Being like March raindrops On black twigs. (Such a pretty time when the sky Behind black twigs can be seen Stretched out in one Uninterrupted Cambridge blue as cold as snow.) But this friend Whatever new names I give him Is an old friend. He says: Whatever names you give me I am A breath of fresh air, A change for you.
"A good poem ends in clarification of life- a momentary stay against confusion." [Robert Frost], Laura