Your thighs are appletrees <br />whose blossoms touch the sky. <br />Which sky? The sky <br />where Watteau hung a lady's <br />slipper. Your knees <br />are a southern breeze -- or <br />a gust of snow. Agh! what <br />sort of man was Fragonard? <br />-- As if that answered <br />anything. -- Ah, yes. Below <br />the knees, since the tune <br />drops that way, it is <br />one of those white summer days, <br />the tall grass of your ankles <br />flickers upon the shore -- <br />Which shore? -- <br />the sand clings to my lips -- <br />Which shore? <br />Agh, petals maybe. How <br />should I know? <br />Which shore? Which shore? <br />-- the petals from some hidden <br />appletree -- Which shore? <br />I said petals from an appletree.<br /><br />William Carlos Williams<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/portrait-of-a-lady-2/
