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rejectomorphThe solstice is creeping up as the gibbous moon passes toward the western pines. But the moon will have set by the time the solstice arrives. The light of the longest day of the year will be longer than today's was by mere seconds. I don't suppose I'll really notice. Without a calendar I'd probably never guess that there was any difference. What I will notice will be the increased heat. Official summer won't start with a scorcher, but it will be considerably hotter than today was.
Well, summer, after all. Heat is to be expected. At least it comes scented, which improves it considerably. For now it is still cool, and the night is full of jasmine and crickets, not to mention crane flies. I'll join them when the moment arrives. The feral cats will wonder why I'm outside at half past four in the morning, when they usually have the yard to themselves. They know nothing of clocks and calendars and our odd rituals. For them it's just another day. It's really just another day for me, too, but I choose to pretend it's something more. A new beginning of some sort. That's what Events are for— marking what passes for passages, when all that has passed is time.
Sunday Verse
by Gwendolyn MacEwen
This land like a mirror turns you inward
And you become a forest in furtive lake;
The dark pines of your mind reach downward,
You dream in the green of your time,
Your memory is a row of sinking pines.
Explorer, you tell yourself this is not what you came for
Although it is good here, and green;
You had meant to move with a kind of largeness,
You had planned a heavy grace, an anguished dream.
But the dark pines of your mind dip deeper
And you are sinking, sinking, sleeper
In an elementary world;
There is something down there and you want it told.
Well, summer, after all. Heat is to be expected. At least it comes scented, which improves it considerably. For now it is still cool, and the night is full of jasmine and crickets, not to mention crane flies. I'll join them when the moment arrives. The feral cats will wonder why I'm outside at half past four in the morning, when they usually have the yard to themselves. They know nothing of clocks and calendars and our odd rituals. For them it's just another day. It's really just another day for me, too, but I choose to pretend it's something more. A new beginning of some sort. That's what Events are for— marking what passes for passages, when all that has passed is time.
Sunday Verse
Dark Pines Under Water
by Gwendolyn MacEwen
This land like a mirror turns you inward
And you become a forest in furtive lake;
The dark pines of your mind reach downward,
You dream in the green of your time,
Your memory is a row of sinking pines.
Explorer, you tell yourself this is not what you came for
Although it is good here, and green;
You had meant to move with a kind of largeness,
You had planned a heavy grace, an anguished dream.
But the dark pines of your mind dip deeper
And you are sinking, sinking, sleeper
In an elementary world;
There is something down there and you want it told.
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no subject
Date: 2010-06-21 11:15 am (UTC)i like the poem very much.
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Date: 2010-06-22 07:03 am (UTC)