rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Rain is washing away the last of the snow, which retreats as though already spring were driving it into the streams and soil- but it is only a lessening of the still deep cold which mimics the sun's power all the dark night. The sounds are soft now, drips and trickles as vague as distant bird songs, or the lapping of deer at a freshened pond. This stream of aimless music carries my hours off to the gray pool dawn spreads into the sky. I have drifted thoughtless with them, as though I could believe that all the clocks had stopped forever.

Sunday Verse

The Descent of Winter

by William Carlos Williams


There are no perfect waves--
Your writings are a sea
full of misspellings and
faulty sentences. Level. Troubled

A center distant from the land
touched by wings
of nearly silent birds
that never seem to rest--

This is the sadness of the sea--
waves like words, all broken--
a sameness of lifting and falling mood.

I lean watching the detail
of brittle crest, the delicate
imperfect foam, yellow weed
one piece like another--

There is no hope-- if not a coral
island slowly forming
to wait for birds to drop
the seeds will make it habitable


that brilliant field
of rainwet orange
by the red grass
and oilgreen bayberry

the last yarrow
on the gutter
white by the sandy

and a white birch
with yellow leaves
and few
and loosely hung

and a young dog
jumped out
of the old barrel


in this strong light
the leafless beechtree
shines like a cloud

it seems to glow
of itself
with a soft stript light
of love
over the brittle

But there are
on second look
a few yellow leaves
still shaking
far apart

just one here one there
trembling vividly

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