rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Smoked

A very thin fog has arrived and the night would smell of it were it not for the wood smoke overwhelming it. Chimneys sport curls that spread and drift, dimly lit by a porch light here and there. The thin crescent moon will not rise for hours, and the clouds are apt to return by the time it does.

The bright and mild afternoon was enough to briefly dispel the dullness of winter, but the nocturnal chill and the smoke have brought it back. Perhaps a rain of greater force will finally come to end the monotony of recent days. Perhaps the fires will burn out and the smoke dissipate in an hour or two. For now I lurk in the house, displeased with both the dull night and my dull thoughts. I want air!



Sunday Verse


Sheltered Garden


by H.D.


I have had enough.
I gasp for breath.

Every way ends, every road,
every foot-path leads at last
to the hill-crest—
then you retrace your steps,
or find the same slope on the other side,
precipitate.

I have had enough—
border-pinks, clove-pinks, wax-lilies,
herbs, sweet-cress.

O for some sharp swish of a branch—
there is no scent of resin
in this place,
no taste of bark, of coarse weeds,
aromatic, astringent—
only border on border of scented pinks.

Have you seen fruit under cover
that wanted light—
pears wadded in cloth,
protected from the frost,
melons, almost ripe,
smothered in straw?

Why not let the pears cling
to the empty branch?
All your coaxing will only make
a bitter fruit—
let them cling, ripen of themselves,
test their own worth,
nipped, shrivelled by the frost,
to fall at last but fair
With a russet coat.

Or the melon—
let it bleach yellow
in the winter light,
even tart to the taste—
it is better to taste of frost—
the exquisite frost—
than of wadding and of dead grass.

For this beauty,
beauty without strength,
chokes out life.
I want wind to break,
scatter these pink-stalks,
snap off their spiced heads,
fling them about with dead leaves—
spread the paths with twigs,
limbs broken off,
trail great pine branches,
hurled from some far wood
right across the melon-patch,
break pear and quince—
leave half-trees, torn, twisted
but showing the fight was valiant.

O to blot out this garden
to forget, to find a new beauty
in some terrible
wind-tortured place.

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