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rejectomorphOh, I totally forgot to set the clocks forward last night. I blame my copy of WinD'OH!s XP, which continues to follow the pattern set down in ones and zeros or whatever when it was written. It is lying to me even as I type! 6:40 PM my arse!
But at 7:41 PM PDT the cerulean sky sports a bright sliver grin of moon. I've only just closed my windows, as afternoon's warmth leaves the air. It already smells of spring tonight. The poppies are about to emerge and, baring any return of harsh weather, another week will doubtless find the landscape splattered with color as they and many other plants blossom. I expect puffs of pine pollen to begin drifting about any day now. And then there'll be the mosquitoes. The frogs I hear croaking await them. Yet someone has a fire going tonight, and the sour smell of woodsmoke stains the scent of spring. That won't happen many more nights, I think.
Sunday Verse
by John Haines
But at 7:41 PM PDT the cerulean sky sports a bright sliver grin of moon. I've only just closed my windows, as afternoon's warmth leaves the air. It already smells of spring tonight. The poppies are about to emerge and, baring any return of harsh weather, another week will doubtless find the landscape splattered with color as they and many other plants blossom. I expect puffs of pine pollen to begin drifting about any day now. And then there'll be the mosquitoes. The frogs I hear croaking await them. Yet someone has a fire going tonight, and the sour smell of woodsmoke stains the scent of spring. That won't happen many more nights, I think.
Sunday Verse
And When the Green Man Comes
by John Haines
The man is clothed
in birchbark,
small birds cling to his limbs
and one builds
a net in his ear.
The clamor of bedlam
infests his hair, a wind
blowing in his head
shakes down
a thought that turns
to moss and lichen
at his feet.
His eyes are blind
with April,
his breath distilled
of butterflies
and bees, and in his beard
the maggot sings.
He comes again
with litter of chips
and empty cans,
his shoes full of mud and dung;
an army of shedding dogs
attends him,
the valley shudders where
he stands,
redolent of roses,
exalted in
the streaming rain.
