{"id":42547,"date":"2017-08-06T07:22:34","date_gmt":"2017-08-06T11:22:34","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/?p=42547"},"modified":"2017-08-06T14:09:07","modified_gmt":"2017-08-06T18:09:07","slug":"winters-draw","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/2017\/08\/winters-draw\/","title":{"rendered":"Winter&#8217;s Draw (Hour 22)"},"content":{"rendered":"<p>Her hand ran smooth across the polished table surface,<br \/>\nTurning to hide her face from a direct assault of the camera.<\/p>\n<p>She laughingly tosses her head over her left shoulder,<br \/>\nshowing us the elegant profile of her figure,<br \/>\nDraped in flowing folds of ebony.<\/p>\n<p>The sharp cut of her cheeks and nose<br \/>\nHint of an underlying royalty,<br \/>\nThe darkness of the room illuminated by the exposure of her flesh,<br \/>\nProjecting the pale cream of her skin,<br \/>\ncrowned in red,<br \/>\nshe parts the moment with all the grace of an actress.<\/p>\n<p>Her frail portrait generating an unspoken allure<br \/>\nto the soft skin about her neck and chest,<br \/>\nHer bosom delightfully clear like a frozen pond\u2019s winter surface.<\/p>\n<p><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-42124\" src=\"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/Madame_X_Madame_Pierre_Gautreau_John_Singer_Sargent_1884_unfree_frame_crop-1-154x300.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"154\" height=\"300\" srcset=\"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/Madame_X_Madame_Pierre_Gautreau_John_Singer_Sargent_1884_unfree_frame_crop-1-154x300.jpg 154w, https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/Madame_X_Madame_Pierre_Gautreau_John_Singer_Sargent_1884_unfree_frame_crop-1-768x1491.jpg 768w, https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/Madame_X_Madame_Pierre_Gautreau_John_Singer_Sargent_1884_unfree_frame_crop-1-527x1024.jpg 527w, https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/Madame_X_Madame_Pierre_Gautreau_John_Singer_Sargent_1884_unfree_frame_crop-1.jpg 1895w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 154px) 100vw, 154px\" \/><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Her hand ran smooth across the polished table surface, Turning to hide her face from a direct assault of the camera. She laughingly tosses her head over her left shoulder, showing us the elegant profile of her figure, Draped in flowing folds of ebony. The&#8230;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":965,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[7,441],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-42547","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-marathon-poem","category-poetry-prompt-responses"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/42547","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/965"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=42547"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/42547\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":43418,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/42547\/revisions\/43418"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=42547"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=42547"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=42547"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}