krassos

Quatrains now for haiku grows old Let my verse be hot and bold Confined now by rhyme is quite a pain. How's your weather?  Our air is cold. Lovely Goddess with hair hued rust. Draw a string across your bust Steel to cup your soft curves String to ruler, measure, must. Joy that light begins to shine. And through the dark you find a sign A jot of joy to soothe the pain. Less of worry will be mine