||[Jun. 23rd, 2013|06:06 pm]
This unseasonable overcast lends the day the air of a Gothic romance. The colors of summer flowers are muted by dim light, and the pines whisper as the oak leaves rustle with each gust of wind. Woodpeckers squawk their disapproval of evening's premature onset. A short time ago, there was still some blue in the sky, and the plentiful clouds were white. Now all is gray and silver. Early this morning I saw the sun emerge and brighten ground dampened by brief showers, and the smell of wet asphalt overpowered even the scent of the gardenias. This evening smells like anticipated rain. I'm listening for the first drops. When they fall I will go out to greet them. Our stormy embrace will be passionate.|
by Charles Wright
Dry spring, no rain for five weeks.
Already the lush green begins to bow its head and sink to its
Already the plucked stalks and thyroid weeds like insects
Fly up and trouble my line of sight.
I stand inside the word here
As that word stands in its sentence,
Unshadowy, half at ease.
Religion's been in a ruin for over a thousand years.
Why shouldn't the sky be tatters,
lost notes to forgotten songs?
I inhabit who I am, as T'ao Ch'ing says, and walk about
Under the mindless clouds.
When it ends, it ends. What else?
One morning I'll leave home and never find my way back—
My story and I will disappear together, just like this.
After Reading T'ao Ch'ing, I Wander Untethered Through the Short Grass