rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Sun Day

The foretaste of summer arrives and draws me to the shade the young oak leaves provide. There I listen to the squirrels cavort, and to the rustling now and then provided by soft breezes. The air sparkles as tiny insects whirl, the beating of their translucent wings too soft to hear. Green shoots arise and conceal the brown earth, and grassy scents join the sharp fragrance of pine resin. The oak shade is pale green, and that the blooming dogwood casts is a pink haze. Where no shade falls, the sun blazes its white light and the birds pass quickly.

The day itself seems to pass quickly, too. The crickets concealed among the burgeoning plants begin their chirps early, while the sky is still bright, but soon dusk begins to erase details, and the breezes freshen, bringing a cooling air. There will be no moon for hours, and spring stars will have the sky to themselves until the thin, waning crescent rises a thin hour or so ahead of morning twilight. All that cool, starlit night will be mine. Tomorrow the sun will claim both sky and air again.




Sunday Verse


Correspondences


by Charles Baudelaire


Nature is a temple whose living colonnades
Breathe forth a mystic speech in fitful sighs;
Man wanders among symbols in those glades
Where all things watch him with familiar eyes.

Like dwindling echoes gathered far away
Into a deep and thronging unison
Huge as the night or as the light of day,
All scents and sounds and colors meet as one.

Perfumes there are as sweet as the oboe's sound,
Green as the prairies, fresh as a child's caress,
And there are others, rich, corrupt, profound
And of an infinite pervasiveness,

Like myrrh, or musk, or amber, the excite
The ecstasies of sense, the soul's delight.
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