rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

May Being

Dawn was dimmed by the lingering clouds which had veiled the ghostly moon, but afternoon brought a few hours of intermittent sunlight which made the heaped cumulus gleam. Two hawks circled for a while as chattering acorn woodpeckers took cover deep within the pine trees. Later the clouds closed in once more, and dusk was gray. The sun had not been out long enough to turn the day hot, and the chirps of the crickets were slow. Again, the night is too cool to bring the scent of jasmine to my room, though I can smell it when I lean close to the hedge. A short while ago, a soft sprinkling of rain began to fall. The serenity makes me want a nap. I'll probably just have some popcorn and listen to Connee Boswell. Sunday, should it continue thus, will count as a pleasant addition to May.

Sunday Verse


by Brendan Kenelly

Begin again to the summoning birds
to the sight of light at the window,
begin to the roar of morning traffic
all along Pembroke Road.
Every beginning is a promise
born in light and dying in dark
determination and exaltation of springtime
flowering the way to work.
Begin to the pageant of queuing girls
the arrogant loneliness of swans in the canal
bridges linking the past and future
old friends passing though with us still.
Begin to the loneliness that cannot end
since it perhaps is what makes us begin,
begin to wonder at unknown faces
at crying birds in the sudden rain
at branches stark in the willing sunlight
at seagulls foraging for bread
at couples sharing a sunny secret
alone together while making good.
Though we live in a world that dreams of ending
that always seems about to give in
something that will not acknowledge conclusion
insists that we forever begin.

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