![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Not even this cooler day has energized me. It would probably take a week of such days, or a month, or the whole of autumn to do that. The clouds that arrived this afternoon bringing no rain are not harbingers of any season, but only the dust and damp of summer gathered by winds that fail to reach the ground. I was told there was wind on the other side of town, but this place is not like one place, and here there is only this monotony that is like being under a blanket when you don't want a blanket.
As is often the case at times such as this I think of the ocean, and regret its distance. The day's dullness provides no distractions that would cheer me. I must dig into memory or imagination, and desire what is lost or was never found. I recall watching from the bluffs at Redondo a ship I never boarded passing up the coast. Even then I imagined seeing familiar places from an unfamiliar place, and the sense of wonder and delight it might bring. Now what I imagine must be reached by mere memory, the imagination's serendipitous prop having long since sailed, and the desire grows more distant. Some day I won't even care.
I suppose I'll settle into these still trees, and let my mind burrow among their roots until darkness is all around. I will not be a sea wind heading shoreward, but stone crushed into soil, feeling only the faintest tremor of the ground when gusts shake the forest. And on still days such as this I'll feel nothing. I smell the earth already, and barely remember how fresh the sea air once was, that day long ago.
( Sunday Verse )
As is often the case at times such as this I think of the ocean, and regret its distance. The day's dullness provides no distractions that would cheer me. I must dig into memory or imagination, and desire what is lost or was never found. I recall watching from the bluffs at Redondo a ship I never boarded passing up the coast. Even then I imagined seeing familiar places from an unfamiliar place, and the sense of wonder and delight it might bring. Now what I imagine must be reached by mere memory, the imagination's serendipitous prop having long since sailed, and the desire grows more distant. Some day I won't even care.
I suppose I'll settle into these still trees, and let my mind burrow among their roots until darkness is all around. I will not be a sea wind heading shoreward, but stone crushed into soil, feeling only the faintest tremor of the ground when gusts shake the forest. And on still days such as this I'll feel nothing. I smell the earth already, and barely remember how fresh the sea air once was, that day long ago.
( Sunday Verse )
