rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


It was barely light when I woke, though somewhere the other side of the gray sky the sun had been up for almost an hour. The air was full of mist which later turned to rain. Now and then the rain would be mixed with small crystals of ice that made a sound like blown sand as they hit the carpet of dead leaves that still litters the lawn. Chill breezes made the pine trees sway, and the pavement glistened. In short, it was a perfect winter morning and thus a splendid way to start the year.

This evening there was fog, and then we had some blustery wind, but the rain has not increased or diminished in all this time; the same, slow, steady fall persists. There is some chance that it will turn to snow tonight, but if it does it won't be a very heavy fall. The next ten days are all likely to bring at least a bit of rain, and some of them may bring quite a bit. Though they are unlikely to bring snow at this elevation, there could be a decent accumulation in the mountains, which is good news. If winter continues thus there will be plenty of water next summer.

I'm still using the laptop, which is putting a strain on my neck, which I can't afford since my chiropractor will not be available until February. There's a chance I'll get a replacement desktop tomorrow and can go back to a screen that is the right height for me (and large enough to see without breathing on it and fogging it up.) Setting it up will probably be a long job, though, so I might not get around to doing much else. And right now I'm ready to go watch television and give my neck a rest.

Sunday Verse

New Year's Day

by Kim Addonizio

The rain this morning falls
on the last of the snow

and will wash it away. I can smell
the grass again, and the torn leaves

being eased down into the mud.
The few loves I’ve been allowed

to keep are still sleeping
on the West Coast. Here in Virginia

I walk across the fields with only
a few young cows for company.

Big-boned and shy,
they are like girls I remember

from junior high, who never
spoke, who kept their heads

lowered and their arms crossed against
their new breasts. Those girls

are nearly forty now. Like me,
they must sometimes stand

at a window late at night, looking out
on a silent backyard, at one

rusting lawn chair and the sheer walls
of other people’s houses.

They must lie down some afternoons
and cry hard for whoever used

to make them happiest,
and wonder how their lives

have carried them
this far without ever once

explaining anything. I don’t know
why I’m walking out here

with my coat darkening
and my boots sinking in, coming up

with a mild sucking sound
I like to hear. I don’t care

where those girls are now.
Whatever they’ve made of it

they can have. Today I want
to resolve nothing.

I only want to walk
a little longer in the cold

blessing of the rain,
and lift my face to it.


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