rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Time Out Of Joint

The clock in my room is seriously broken. The big hand was on the nine and the little hand a little bit past three when I woke up, so I guessed that it was quarter to four, but the functional clocks in the rest of the house said it was five thirty. One more thing that needs to be replaced. It's a good thing new clocks are easier to come by than new joints. My left shoulder is aching because I probably slept on it wrong, and my left knee tried to go out from under me when I stood up. I can check the computer or the Comcast cable box to see the correct time, but no device is available to pick me up off the floor if I go sprawling.

Rising so late means I missed most of the day's sunlight. New clouds were already forming by the time I looked outside, and by dusk they had grown so thick that I was unable to see the full moon rise. But before nightfall there was time to see the dozen or so camellias that have bloomed. The frogs were singing, and the acorn woodpeckers spent the evening in chatter, but I saw no flocks of waterfowl flying north. Perhaps they've all left already. I'm still stuck here.

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,

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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