| Baked |
[Apr. 22nd, 2012|11:57 pm]
rejectomorph
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A few days of spring gave way to a burst of summer. The unprepared trees cast the shadows of bony branches, and the ground dried around the roots of the rose bushes. Had the sourgrass yet bloomed, its flowers would have shrunk from the heat.
I'm going to blame Sierra Nevada Brewery for the premature arrival of the season. Today there was Summerfest lager on the store shelves. No wonder summer came so soon— it had to greet its tasty specialty beer. Of course I bought a six pack. A couple of weeks ago we had winter in April, and now we have summer in April. Who needs to travel when different climes visit one's home so frequently?
This summer will be brief, though. Spring ought to return within a few days, which means I ought to enjoy the first summer beer before it becomes temporarily inappropriate. That means before Wednesday, when there could be rain again. I hope there will be rain, as I chose not to irrigate anything today, and will probably let it go tomorrow as well. There are already enough mosquitoes flying about, without irrigation leaving puddles for them to breed in.
I'm quite sure the insects were celebrating Earth Day. I've never seen so many appear so suddenly as I did this afternoon. The birds must be feasting. I'm just scratching where I got bitten.
Sunday Verse
Ballad Of The Moon, Moon
by Federico García Lorca
The moon came to the forge
with her bustle of spikenards.
The child looks, looks.
The child is looking.
In the trembling air
the moon moves her arms
showing breasts hard as tin,
erotic and pure.
Fly, moon, moon, moon,
for if the gypsies come
they'll make rings
and white necklaces
out of your heart
Child, let me dance!
When the gypsies come
they'll find you on the anvil
with your little eyes closed.
Fly, moon, moon, moon
because I hear their horses.
Child leave me alone, and don't
touch my starchy whiteness.
The horseman draws near
beating the drum of the plain.
Within the forge the child
has its eyes closed.
Through the olive groves
come gypsies bronzed and dreamy,
their heads held high
and their eyes half-closed.
How the owl hoots!
How it hoots in the treetops!
Through the sky a moon goes
with a child by the hand.
Within the forge
gypsies weep, crying loudly.
The air veils her, veils her.
The air is veiling her.
—translated by Langston Hughes |
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