12 Days of Christmas Offering No.4
Lest I should scribe an almanac for thee
And etch, in ornament, such swerving guise.
No guage of thine – as balanced though’ it be –
Could measure or predict a Cancer tide.
Of pessimism cold and laughter brash
Like silver. Tender weeps deep ‘neath his shell.
Though a small child may well, with long eyelash
Fluttered, trounce and behold his armour melt
Perhaps, do not let thine reliance sit
On some doe-eyed-daughter whom cannot match,
Not in bind nor in clench, the crab claw grip
If it were thy wish to steal his proud catch.
For this, I happ’ly pour into his well,
My secrets, for release does not compel