| That Time Of Year |
[May. 30th, 2010|08:52 pm]
rejectomorph
|
The sun is setting and the windows are still open. The attic is packed with heat, so the furnace probably won't be on at all tonight. Summer is breathing down our necks. Now that the rain has gone I have to remember to start watering the plants or they'll soon be brown. Portia is reacting to the heat, too. She's started to do some serious shedding. At the moment she's playing with a bit of her own dislodged fur on the floor. Soon I'll have to be collecting bits of it from everywhere. Autumn is for raking leaves and summer is for vacuuming cat hair.
But the evenings of summer, or near summer, are also for watching the stars come out and listening to the last chirps of the birds and the first chirps of the crickets. I'll do that now. Maybe I'll water the jasmine, too. It ought to bloom any night now. Then the season will be accomplished.
Sunday Verse
The Night, The Porch
by Mark Strand
To stare at nothing is to learn by heart
What all of us will be swept into, and baring oneself
To the wind is feeling the ungraspable somewhere close by.
Trees can sway or be still. Day or night can be what they wish.
What we desire, more than a season or weather, is the comfort
Of being strangers, at least to ourselves. This is the crux
Of the matter, which is why even now we seem to be waiting
For something whose appearance would be its vanishing—
The sound, say, of a few leaves falling, or just one leaf,
Or less. There is no end to what we can learn. The book out there
Tells us much, and was never written with us in mind.
|
|
