rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Summery

It's frogs and crickets tonight. The crickets I expected, but the frogs are a bit of a surprise. I thought their numbers had shrunk since the last warm nights, but there they are, croaking in chorus from some wet place. The clouds are back, but there probably won't be any rain. They are thin, and the nearly-full moon is lighting them as they drift. When the air has cooled enough to send the mosquitoes into hiding I'll go out and watch the sky's light show for a while. I got quite enough bites when I was out earlier to water the shrubs.

Insects of all sorts have appeared in great numbers. I found a young cicada in the garage, moths are clinging to the window screens, and there are crane flies everywhere. Earlier, the kittens were tormenting a beetle of some sort on the back porch. Luckily for the beetle, their attention spans are not yet fully developed, and the kittens soon found other wonders to engage them. Their little world contains so much to be explored.

The jasmine is very nearly ready to bloom. The tiny, green buds are numerous, and I expect white petals to emerge from them any day now. It will be nice to have scented nights again. The gardenia season was cut short when cold, wet weather returned soon after they bloomed. I hope the jasmine doesn't suffer a similar fate. We had barely any spring, and it will be very disappointing if summer doesn't last at least a month.




Sunday Verse


The Swing


by Don Paterson


The swing was picked up for the boys,
for the here-and-here-to-stay
and only she knew why it was
I dug so solemnly

I spread the feet two yards apart
and hammered down the pegs
filled up the holes and stamped the dirt
around its skinny legs

I hung the rope up in the air
and fixed the yellow seat
then stood back that I might admire
my handiwork complete

and saw within its frail trapeze
the child that would not come
of what we knew had two more days
before we sent it home

I know that there is nothing here
no venue and no host
but the honest fulcrum of the hour
that engineers our ghost

the bright sweep of its radar-arc
is all the human dream
handing us from dark to dark
like a rope over a stream

But for all the coldness of my creed
for all those I denied
for all the others she had freed
like arrows from her side

for all the child was barely here
and for all that we were over
I could not weigh the ghosts we are
against those we deliver

I gave the empty seat a push
and nothing made a sound
and swung between two skies to brush
her feet upon the ground.

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