by John Lars Zwerenz
The scent of hyacinths waver in the summer breeze,
Amid a throng of dappled boughs, hued with honey trees.
And there, in the umbrage of the vast, marble square,
You preen the sable tresses of your long, immaculate hair,
Lending your ear to the symphonies laid bare,
Wafting from white guitars, in the aromatic, sacred air.
Last updated August 15, 2016