rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Going On

The moon has filled with light again, and sends it to the air that is cool just verging on cold. The air smells of grass tonight, with undertones of wood that is not burning. The raccoons have not been around, and the frogs are leaving the night silent. It's as though nobody wants to disturb that moonlight. Even I walk carefully, not to hear my footsteps. One dog barks for a moment, but dogs always have to bark at the moon. Cats merely cast its light back at it, then squint themselves back into the shadows. The air just glimmers on with its borrowed light, oblivious to the dog that returned its shiver.

Winter seems no more than a wraith haunting what remains of February, with not even a breeze to help it chill this night. Maybe it will grow cold before morning, but tomorrow the sun will fall on a dozen blooming camellias and the green lawn and the spiky daffodil leaves. Each longer day the soil grows warmer, and more shoots emerge from it. It won't be long before I can open the windows again, and fill the house with fresh air. And it won't be much longer before I will begin to sneeze and say Alas for winter! That's the way it goes.

Sunday Verse

First Snow, Kerhonkson

by Diane Di Prima

   for Alan

This, then, is the gift the world has given me
(you have given me)
softly the snow
cupped in hollows
lying on the surface of the pond
matching my long white candles
which stand at the window
which will burn at dusk while the snow
fills up our valley
this hollow
no friend will wander down
no one arriving brown from Mexico
from the sunfields of California, bearing pot
they are scattered now, dead or silent
or blasted to madness
by the howling brightness of our once common vision
and this gift of yours—
white silence filling the contours of my life.


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