rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Creeping Up

The twilight that is days cusp reveals an oak leaf cluster torn loose, the gust of wind that detached it long gone. I pick it up. The softness of the leaves is surprising. Scant weeks will turn the living leaves dark and tough. Mature, they posses remarkable endurance. Many times in spring or summer I have found buried in the indistinguishable remains of other leaves which rotted to soil an oak leaf, still shapely and strong, long months after it fell from the tree. But these soft, pale green leaves I hold now will never reach that stage. Left in the flower bed, they will quickly decay, the intricate tracery of veins dissolve into soil, vanish into that slow stream of change. For the moment, while they retain their vibrant sheen, I hold them close and smell them. They have the sweet scent of new growth.

The one long night which rolls around the world has given way to the one long day. For the time of its present passage, we call it Sunday here. Despite the fact that it is the same day it has always been, I still mark it with this:


by Paul Goodman

For rage and dignity no words compare
with the Atlantic Ocean lashed by winds;
the love-gestures of juveniles are sweeter
than any words of mine. But for alcaic

speed and in the end a pat surprise
you must read Horace. John, the fertile fields
and the repetitive factories produce,
though may other things, no metaphors.

Sure, many a labor is heavier to do
and profit by than stanzas, but these are
my skill; shall I ungratefully
my gift of formal speech disdain?

By literature Sheharazad a thousand
midnights his prone violence appeased,
the homicidal hurry in his soul
embarrassed into an uncertain smile.


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