| Stolen Hour Night |
[Apr. 3rd, 2005|05:35 am]
rejectomorph
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For a while, mist falls, and the long streets take on a dark sheen. A faint drumming arrives as the trees begin to shed the accumulated moisture. I know the forest will be filled with the scent of last year's pine needles, dampened where they lie slowly returning to soil. The grasses in the fields will be wet, and would dampen my pant legs were I walking there. It would be a pleasant sensation, but I will not disturb the perfect serenity. Rather, I will hold the thought of it, pure, and free of any human footsteps. Perhaps the deer wander there, browsing on moist, green shoots. There is no need for my presence there when there so easily comes to me, a fragrance on the chill, mist-laden breeze.
Sunday Verse
Taking a Walk with You
by Mark Strand
Lacking the wit and depth
That informs our dreams'
Bright landscapes,
This countryside
Through which we walk
Is no less beautiful
For being only what it seems.
Rising from the dyed
Pool of its shade,
The tree we lean against
Was never made too stand
For something else,
Let alone ourselves.
Nor were these fields
And gullies planned
With us in mind.
We live unsettled lives
And stay in a place
Only long enough to find
We don't belong.
Even the clouds, forming
Noiselessly overhead,
Are cloudy without
Resembling us and, storming
The vacant air,
Don't take into account
Our present loneliness.
And yet, why should we care?
Already we are walking off
As if to say,
We are not here,
We've always been away.
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