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rejectomorph

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Gray [May. 17th, 2015|04:50 pm]
rejectomorph
Since morning an overcast has gradually developed, preventing the day from getting too warm. Still, it's warm enough to have the windows open and let the fragrance of the jasmine drift through the house. The ground is still damp from the modest recent rain, adding a hint of earthiness to the floral scent. Someone nearby mowed their lawn earlier today, and so there is also a lingering hint of fresh grass in the mild air. In short, it smells very much like spring today.

Last night someone had a fire in their fireplace, and it smelled like the winter we had so little of this year, though the merely chilly night didn't feel very wintry. We've been fortunate that it has remained fairly mild all month so far, as it could easily have turned hot already. Sustained heat is not in the forecast over the next ten days, so I'm hoping our luck will hold out and it will continue to feel like spring all the way to June. That would please me greatly.

In fact I'm thinking that maybe those geese who decided not to fly north last night knew something the weather bureau doesn't. A furious surprise rainstorm would be a perfect ending to the day. The overcast is not yet dark enough to suggest rain, but such things can change quickly. The whole overcast could dissipate quickly, or it could darken and the evening turn blustery. I'm watching the mulberry tree outside my window for signs of rising wind. So far the leaves have only fluttered a bit with soft breezes, but one never knows.

Storm or not, there will be no moon tonight. A waxing crescent will show up in the west early this week, but tonight, if the sky clears at all, there will be only the stars. I probably won't spend much time looking at them as it is cooling rapidly now. I guess it's time to close the windows and say goodnight to the jasmine.




Sunday Verse



Words


by Anne Sexton


Be careful of words,
even the miraculous ones.
For the miraculous we do our best,
sometimes they swarm like insects
and leave not a sting but a kiss.
They can be as good as fingers.
They can be as trusty as the rock
you stick your bottom on.
But they can be both daisies and bruises.
Yet I am in love with words.
They are doves falling out of the ceiling.
They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap.
They are the trees, the legs of summer,
and the sun, its passionate face.
Yet often they fail me.
I have so much I want to say,
so many stories, images, proverbs, etc.
But the words aren't good enough,
the wrong ones kiss me.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle
but with the wings of a wren.
But I try to take care
and be gentle to them.
Words and eggs must be handled with care.
Once broken they are impossible
things to repair.

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