A Fresh bloom-spread,
over a plush glow.
Her new dress?
No! The print
a darker tan of red;
he turns to look again.
Waves shallow n soft,
a morning spray as Sunday sets.
Her new mane?
No! The stream reflects,
sure a deeper twirl,
he had to look again.
Mist, white and light;
lukewarm - the breath.
The smoke in chains?
No! A whitish halo
from a fighting lung.
Kokeshi, the christened doll.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBoHavoBmG-g3gLD8tKu_klLzJSIPVXyawsa1BdSYI7cfesk6lkur5bfybPfR95IcILeCRCmLh3KuUs6PHcLW8uSpLJpsnedEuRMv4pVwiaBjg-8WX85xELZDguZv9-lWRMbASGg/s400/kokeshi.jpg)
(Kokeshi, a Japanese doll... She caught my eye in the newsroom...)