A lyrical, book-length poem about imagination, loneliness and circumstance as told by a blossom concubine in a Palace of snow and ice. The fourth book by William Frank combines lyrical virtuosity with spiraling imagery to create a moving poem of spectacle, sadness and Grace. Below is the first few pages excerpted from the book,,, a What I cannot, a blossom thinks. My books are ashes in the grate. I write this carelessly and late and You have had too much to drink. The festival jar is lifeless that has such painted scenes. The waterdrop is flightless in shining folded wings. As I am Yours and in Your train and cannot speak or else be plain I the snowflake break a link. The break is cold with winter pink. Life has no more Curses. They have come to me to sew. I am loved, that is the worst sorrow I'll ever know. I with punishments have learned to show my fans, hide my music though these and this will, too, be burned. I for that resent Your Eunuchs who come like shadows deep at dawn to steal my papers, break my brush as I wake and so are gone with the comets of their shush. How long will my heart dare take its powers from the air? and the world go around in the silence of my crown? All we beg or barter for a day of little things, all we chase or charter with a map of Reckonings the kiss that brings more paper, what I’ve done for solitude, the shame has made its pasture in the heart of widowhood. Vast the pleasures of this place in ribbons measured wall to wall twelve thousand ends lain and paced, in the snow, my footstep small, make me remember far from harm with petals run and trees to climb I loved the little of our farm that still could dream and tell time….