Literature of Mount Shasta
From The Stranger Volume I, October 1923
By A.B. Curtis
All day we played with the lone pile of coldness--
Shadowy and white and far.
Then like a kitten, catching its tail,
We curved and frisked around its base.
In and out among the lower hills
That never dared to look
Up to their frozen queen.
This side, then that;
In the white coldness of the winter sun--
In the blue coldness of December clouds;
Until it seemed we could reach out and touch
That tireless iciness
And it made me think
Of an armful of pomegranate flowers
I had gathered, down in Mississippi;
Near the Gulf, in May. . .
I longed to throw the rich redness
Of their passion and their warmth
Against Shasta's frozen slopes.
* * *
That night I saw a woman--
Too tall and cold and beautiful for earth,
And against her frozen breast she held
A cluster of pomegranate flowers.
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