The glare from January's low afternoon sun sent me squinting about town. Things are only half there on such days— one side brilliant and stark and the other darkly shaded. On such days I eagerly await sunset, and the dusk when the sky turns cerulean and the moon brings its soft glow. The assault is over until tomorrow, and my eyes can rest. Starlight and lamplight soothe my senses, and the world, no longer piebald, becomes a serene and subdued place. The harsh contrasts are gone. The ordered constellations count the dark hours here in the big shade of Earth. Soon I will go watch Orion rise from the pines, and the crescent moon sink down the opposite side of the dome. I'm glad the winter nights are so long.
This Bread I Break
by Dylan Thomas
This bread I break was once the oat, This wine upon a foreign tree Plunged in its fruit; Man in the day or wind at night Laid the crops low, broke the grape's joy.
Once in this wine the summer blood Knocked in the flesh that decked the vine, Once in this bread The oat was merry in the wind; Man broke the sun, pulled the wind down.
This flesh you break, this blood you let Make desolation in the vein, Were oat and grape Born of the sensual root and sap; My wine you drink, my bread you snap.