rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


The memorable image of the day was when the wind kicked up early in the afternoon, and the big photinia bush with its spring-red leaves did a wild dance, flinging its horded raindrops into the tumultuous air. Light and shade came and went again and again as the broken clouds scudded across the sun, and for a few minutes hail was flung against my window with a great rattling. The other bushes and the oaks and pines danced, too, but none so energetically as the fiery photinia.

When the wind died down I went outside expecting to see rent leaves scattered about, but there were none. The bush had held itself together throughout the blustery hour, and stood quiet as the slowed clouds turned the day gray once again. It had been a splendid sight, but it made my shopping trip feel anticlimactic. I'll probably dream about that storm tonight. Another recommendation for sleep.

Sunday Verse

Everything Is Full Of You

by Miguel Hernandez

Everything is full of you
and I am full of everything:
the cities are full,
and the cemeteries are full,

you, with all the houses,
me, with all the bodies.

Down the streets, I will leave
something that I will retake:
pieces of my life
come from far away.

I go, feathered by agony
against my will, to see myself
in the threshold, in the bottom
hidden since birth.

Everything is full of me:
of something that is yours and memory
lost, but found
once more, some day.

Days that linger behind
decidedly black,
indelibly red,
golden upon your body.

Cast from your hair,
everything is full of you:
of something that I haven't found
and look for among your bones.


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