Orithyia

Barbed clouds
do not bode well...
Yet her pale foot
  sinks genial
in grass.

Errant, without care
             for restive skies,
      she runs.
A gale crosses open field.
Her white gown lifts
lithe as Sylph's wing,
flush cheek
  nearly eclipsed
 by billowing cloth.

Boreas held
want too long.
 Those bright cheeks,
blood-hued to warm
  wind blasted
countenance,
     are full with
             his breath.