Her pitching angles swept and scalloped
As oyster shells of yesterday –
So grand a vessel all but galloped
Out through the foggy rain the bay
Would drape and veil across the water.
A wife? A mother? Mistress-lover?
Rosario was all of these
(Though which of these could money please…?).
Upon Seattle’s ashen sorrows
I built her shingled eaves to shield
My joys – though glory would but yield
To tantalizing time’s tomorrows…
To think a mansion held such grief –
Rosario, you clever thief!
Rosario
July 5, 2012 by at 2:01 pm
Pretty poem, thanks.
So our O’Brien draws a face
To catch the genius of the place.
Nice photo, thanks.