|Passing the Night
||[Dec. 13th, 2009|10:43 pm]
Once the rain ends a quiet falls, except for the dripping of the trees. Swirls of mist and fog pass, and my feet tread a softened carpet of fallen leaves which, in their sodden state, no longer make an autumnal crunch. The night air smells of damp wood and grass, and porch lights glaze the wet pavement. The only moonlight so far tonight is what little the persistent clouds filter and spread among themselves. |
It's a perfect December night, chilly but not freezing. Later the clouds might break, and tomorrow there could be a bit of sun. But now it's going on midnight, and I want to enjoy the dark tranquility. I'm going outside to walk up and down the driveway and squish the leaves some more.
What Does It Mean
by Czeslaw Milosz
It does not know it glitters
It does not know it flies
It does not know it is this not that.
And, more and more often, agape,
With my Gauloise dying out,
Over a glass of red wine,
I muse on the meaning of being this not that.
Just as long ago, when I was twenty,
But then there was a hope I would be everything,
Perhaps even a butterfly or a thrush, by magic.
Now I see dusty district roads
And a town where the postmaster gets drunk every day
Melancholy with remaining identical to himself.
If only the stars contained me.
If only everything kept happening in such a way
That the so-called world opposed the so-called flesh.
Were I at least not contradictory. Alas.