rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Lighter

Later dusks arrive despite the overcast. It's good that January wanes. Tonight I stood, sheltered by the doorway, and watched the soft rain slant as gusty breezes caught the drops, even as the drops caught the filtered luminance the clouds had also released. The light of evening was serene, untroubled by the turbulent air, and the wet pavement cast up rumpled clouds like a vague and darker sky. The freshened air remains chill, but never mind. Damp and woody scents abound, roots drink, and the season flows like a stream drawn down to green spring's spacious fields. The pleasing light lingers, and the shortened night cannot resist its charm.




Sunday Verse


The Return


by Edna St. Vincent Millay


Earth does not understand her child,
Who from the loud gregarious town
Returns, depleted and defiled,
To the still woods, to fling him down.

Earth cannot count the sons she bore:
The wounded lynx, the wounded man
Come trailing blood unto her door;
She shelters both as best she can.

But she is early up and out,
To trim the year or strip its bones;
She has no time to stand about
Talking of him in undertones

Who has no aim but to forget
Be left in peace, be lying thus
For days, for years, for centuries yet,
Unshaven and anonymous;

Who, marked for failure, dulled by grief,
Has traded in his wife and friend
For this warm ledge, this alder leaf:
Comfort that does not comprehend.

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