March 24th, 2013

caillebotte_man at his window


Thin clouds thin more where the moon shines, and become like a ghost of fog rising to heaven. The moonlight is made milky, as are the white flowers when they catch its borrowed rays. The dark pines merely swallow it, graves of light that blot out what stars they can and point at the others, their very looming a challenge. But I like the shapes of pines at night. There is something robust about them, defiant of the darkness they embody. They have swallowed light days on end, year after year, using it to pull earth upward with their yearning for sky. All that energy they flaunt at the dead moon which merely reflects what they can capture for themselves, to fill the vacant air with songs each time it moves.

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