rejectomorph | Dangerous Balm

Having experienced actual direct sunlight today for more than half an hour, I remain dazzled. The mildness I wished for last night arrived, and though the night has turned chilly, the memory of near-balmy afternoon has me, like the sourgrass which has produced its first blossoms of the season, doing springy things when winter is barely half over. With nothing resembling a thought, as evening fell I prepared a glass for icing the tea I'd intended to drink hot. Later, spotting from my window the waxing crescent moon, I headed outdoors in shirtsleeves only to rush back in to fetch a sweater. My attention wandering thusly is sure sign that I've fallen out of sync with time.

The oddest thing is that only today did the last of the snow depart our roof, and the downspouts cease their trickling. Snow remained in patches all about, but insects buzzed as though the pollination of the world couldn't wait. I hope the weather does not go all soft for any length of time, as the lake still looks pretty much like picture A, and much more winter is needed to make it look like picture B. Picture B is the goal.

Sunday Verse

The Weathers

by Thomas Hardy

                (I)

THIS is the weather the cuckoo likes, 
    And so do I; 
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes, 
    And nestlings fly; 
And the little brown nightingale bills his best, 
And they sit outside at 'The Traveller's Rest,' 
And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest, 
And citizens dream of the south and west, 
    And so do I. 

                (II)

This is the weather the shepherd shuns, 
    And so do I; 
When beeches drip in browns and duns, 
    And thresh and ply; 
And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe, 
And meadow rivulets overflow, 
And drops on gate bars hang in a row, 
And rooks in families homeward go, 
    And so do I.