Windblown

As I expected, the wind has risen. Gusts are booming in the chimney and shaking the pine branches so their moon-cast shadows wave at me from the western facades of houses. Hello or good-bye? The night has an oddly autumnal feel to it, though winter is nearly half over. I expect to hear leaves skittering down the street. One pine cone fell, hitting the pavement with a loud clatter as it rolled, invisible. I now hear the crunch of pine needles underfoot as I walk along the driveway. I'm sure this sense of displacement has influenced my choice of poems this week:

( Sunday Verse )

Bright

The flash of gold drenching the pines gradually sinks, and the birds who had arrayed themselves on the utility wires to watch the sunset then depart, one by one, notes flying from a score that falls to silence as the sky passes from shade to deepening shade of blue. The first star appears as the rustling of bushes subsides. Is that Venus or Saturn trailing after the sun? I've lost track. Jupiter will rise in the southeast, I know, soon to be followed by the waning moon. Last night, it was the moon's near companion as it followed its brighter arc, but tonight the smaller light will lead. The celestial world will be revealed for several nights to come, the storms having departed for northern lands. Tomorrow, as today, the sunlight will warm the skin while the air remains cool, and passing from light to shade will be like passing from season to season. A certain ambiguity lingers these days, and while I find my thoughts opening like the clear sky, I am always mindful of what might lie over that etched horizon. Exuberant camellias are now bursting from their buds. The wary daffodils keep their blossoms hidden. I think it wise to emulate the daffodils.