Thetis

Of ashes spoken
  and smiles bright,

fleeting as snowfall
caught by light:

Autumn snow
  disintegrates touching.

Dusk skin shines
with pinched fire.

Tapering eyes
approximate
shafts of Sun
kindling flame.

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.
             

Call Me Beelzebub