||[Jan. 18th, 2010|12:00 am]
Settling in for the storm, I have tea and a few muffins, so let the rain fall all week if it will. There's nowhere to go, no need to get wet, but I couldn't resist standing a few minutes in what was yet a soft fall of fine drops that accompanied the day's last light. The sound was as soft as the rain itself and (as such rain often does) reminded me of sand falling in an hourglass. All the time in the world.|
The Man Whose Pharynx Was Bad
by Wallace Stevens
The time of year has grown indifferent.
Mildew of summer and the deepening snow
Are both alike in the routine I know.
I am too dumbly in my being pent.
The wind attendant on the solstices
Blows on the shutters of the metropoles,
Stirring no poet in his sleep, and tolls
The grand ideas of the villages.
The malady of the quotidian...
Perhaps, if summer ever came to rest
And lengthened, deepened, comforted, caressed
Through days like oceans in obsidian
Horizons full of night's midsummer blaze;
Perhaps, if winter once could penetrate
Through all its purples to the final slate,
Persisting bleakly in an icy haze;
One might in turn become less diffident,
Out of such mildew plucking neater mould
And spouting new orations of the cold.
One might. One might. But time will not relent.
2010-01-18 10:00 pm (UTC)
.....or the sound sugar makes as it is slowly hitting the surface of hot coffee or tea.