rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Saturated. Drenched. Sodden. I'm drowning in the same adjectives, day after day. The wet year will relentlessly leach every other thought from my mind. The morning birds chirp and fly, then alight and flick the water from their wings, making small rains within the rain. Chicks born this year will have gills. Their chicks will vanish into rivers and lakes. Landbound, I will tread knee-high grass. Everything not washed away will be engulfed in vegetation. I might as well grow roots.


Digging way back, because it just seems appropriate:

Sunday Verse

The Mower's Song


by Andrew Marvell


My Mind was once the true survey
Of all these Medows fresh and gay;
And in the greenness of the Grass
Did see its Hopes as in a Glass;
When Juliana came, and she
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

But these, while I with Sorrow pine,
Grew more luxuriant still and fine;
That not one Blade of Grass you spy'd,
But had a Flower on either side;
When Juliana came, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

Unthankful Meadows, could you so
A fellowship so true forego,
And in your gawdy May-games meet,
While I lay trodden under feet?
When Juliana came , and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

But what you in Compassion ought,
Shall now by my Revenge be wrought:
And Flow'rs, and Grass, and I and all,
Will in one common Ruine fall.
For Juliana comes, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.

And thus, ye Meadows, which have been
Companions of my thoughts more green,
Shall now the Heraldry become
With which I shall adorn my Tomb;
For Juliana comes, and She
What I do to the Grass, does to my Thoughts and Me.
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