Good Night, Good Day

I do intend to get to bed before the light comes into the sky this morning. That may increase (however marginally) my chances of getting to sleep. Most likely, I'll lie there wide awake, but I want to give it a shot. I might even open the heater vent a bit, just to bring some languor-inducing warmth into this icy room. Sluggo will be sleeping, anyway. He never has trouble getting to sleep, even when I want him awake. So, on to the poetry, for the last time this year. (And once again, my apologies for the absence of the diacritical marks in the poet's name. I have no French font, and don't think that my obsolete keyboard would allow for its use in any case. Just imagine the accents over the first "e" in his first name and over the "e" that terminates his surname.)

( Sunday Verse )

Onset

A rising wind swirls fine mist about. There is a new storm due. Skittering through darkness, a few desiccated autumn leaves find their way to the grasping roots of bushes or to tangled patches of dormant plants in flower beds where they will at last decay to dust. My flashlight beam reveals among the drops of mist a few flakes of snow. The moon cannot be discerned even by any glow reflected in the clouds, so thick have they grown. Only this afternoon, there was bright sun, and birds singing from bare branches. The sudden bluster has taken the cats by surprise, and they rush indoors to watch it through the windows. I go back out to feel the invigorating mist.