rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Reset Thirty-Five, Day Nineteen

Saturday evening brought flock after flock of geese and ducks passing over the neighborhood. It was already too dark to see them when the first arrived, but I heard them. More probably flew over while I was indoors, their sound blocked by walls and roof. I've heard a few more at various times through the night when I've chanced to be outdoors. I've decided to take them as a good omen for the winter. Already, rain is likely on Monday and Thursday, and there could be more elater in the month. Another ten inches of rain for the valley, and snow in the mountains, would make November a happy month. As it is, we're surrounded by the desiccated rubble of leagues of drought-induced burn scars. Hide it under snow, and grass next spring.




Sunday Verse




The End and the Beginning


by Wislawa Szymborska


After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won’t
straighten themselves up, after all.
Someone has to push the rubble
to the sides of the road,
so the corpse-laden wagons can pass.

Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa-springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.

Someone must drag in a girder
to prop up a wall.
Someone must glaze a window,
rehang a door.



Photogenic it’s not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.

Again we’ll need bridges
and new railway stations.

Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.
Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls how it was.
Someone listens
and nods with unsevered head.
Yet others milling about
already find it dull.

From behind the bush
sometimes someone still unearths
rust-eaten arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.

Those who knew
what was going on here
must give way to
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.

In the grass which has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out,
blade of grass in his mouth,
gazing at the clouds.

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