rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Despite dense clouds, nothing has precipitated outdoors all night but a bit of icy mist. Indoors, however, unintentional sleep was precipitated by... well, I have no idea. There is no reason for this to have happened. All I know is that three hours once again vanished in a dreamless puff. On my lawn, the cold night has preserved four surviving clumps of snow. They look like ghostly hieroglyphs in a lost language, casually scattered along the north edge of the wild plum bushes.

Sunday Verse

How I Sailed on the Lake Till I Came to the Eastern Stream

by Lu Yu

Of Spring water,-- thirty or forty miles:
In the evening sunlight,-- three or four houses.
Youths and boys minding geese and ducks:
Women and girls tending mulberries and hemp.
The place,-- remote: their coats and scarves old:
The year,-- fruitful: their talk and laughter gay.
The old wanderer moors his flat boat
And staggers up the bank to pluck wisteria flowers.
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