Under The Hood Of Paradise Poem by James McLain

To the north, south, west and east
Surrounded by wet land grows the greenest grass.
Yea, though it's warm the air is moist
And heavy tree's are heavy at the top where
Leaves grow gree and thick and long.

Could it be to her from him a yellow drop of snow
On a blanket of white snow that left no stain.
Night comes to us whom wait the moon can't wait to
Pull the clouds aside for through what the word's have
Said before you close her eyes in sleep.