Your turn
Like the white curls from a gigantic beard
Drifting across the barber’s shop floor
In the breeze from the open door;
Like the broken parts of the ice floe
Afloat on the blue of the ocean,
Drifting southward from the pole;
Like a heavily laden treasure fleet
Ln a light wind on the calm sea,
Hardly moving with all sails set;
Like suds of foam from the waterfall
That lathers the rocks at its foot,
Gliding over a tranquil pool;
Like wool from a fleece,
Like smoke from a fire,
Like islands in the sky.