rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Again

A half-hearted evening drizzle diminishes and the clouds release the stars. All night, the clouds come and go, bruising one part of the sky or another. At last, thin fog arrives, and the smell of it is sharp and rich with dank earth and sodden pines. Frogs fall silent as the sky pales, and the first birds begin singing. Deja vu.




Classic Sunday Verse

Spring and All


by W.C. Williams


By the road to the contagious hospital
under the surge of the blue
mottled clouds driven from the
northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the
waste of broad, muddy fields
brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen

patches of standing water
the scattering of tall trees

All along the road the reddish
purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy
stuff of bushes and small trees
with dead, brown leaves under them
leafless vines—

Lifeless in appearance, sluggish
dazed spring approaches—

They enter the new world naked,
cold, uncertain of all
save that they enter. All about them
the cold, familiar wind—

Now the grass, tomorrow
the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf

One by one objects are defined—
It quickens: clarity, outline of leaf

But now the stark dignity of
entrance—Still, the profound change
has come upon them: rooted they
grip down and begin to awaken
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