rejectomorph (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rejectomorph) wrote2024-09-15 02:31 am
rejectomorph) wrote2024-09-15 02:31 am
51/03: Still Here
Despite a fairly long afternoon nap Saturday, I still crashed early that night and found myself in bed not long after midnight. The next I knew, a wind was clattering the vertical blinds of my open bedroom window, waking me with its racket and the bursts of morning light admitted. I thought we might be in for a windy day, but not long after I got up it died down, and now a stillness hangs over this cool, late summer morning.
Vague images of other places other times wander through my mind, but none of Saturday are recognizable among them. As far as my brain is concerned, only the imaginary turned page of a calendar bears witness to its passage. Disembodied voices of passersby traveling the path beyond my back fence sound, and are as strange as my own would be, if I dared to attempt speech. But I don't want to hear my voice alone in this room. It might sound too sad.
Sunday Verse
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
The turn of noontide has begun.
In the weak breeze the sunshine yields.
There is a bell upon the fields.
On the long hedgerow's tangled run
A low white cottage intervenes:
Against the wall a blind man leans,
And sways his face to have the sun.
Our horses' hoofs stir in the road,
Quiet and sharp. Light hath a song
Whose silence, being heard, seems long.
The point of noon maketh abode,
And will not be at once gone through.
The sky's deep colour saddens you,
And the heat weighs a dreamy load.
Vague images of other places other times wander through my mind, but none of Saturday are recognizable among them. As far as my brain is concerned, only the imaginary turned page of a calendar bears witness to its passage. Disembodied voices of passersby traveling the path beyond my back fence sound, and are as strange as my own would be, if I dared to attempt speech. But I don't want to hear my voice alone in this room. It might sound too sad.
Sunday Verse
A Half-Way Pause
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
The turn of noontide has begun.
In the weak breeze the sunshine yields.
There is a bell upon the fields.
On the long hedgerow's tangled run
A low white cottage intervenes:
Against the wall a blind man leans,
And sways his face to have the sun.
Our horses' hoofs stir in the road,
Quiet and sharp. Light hath a song
Whose silence, being heard, seems long.
The point of noon maketh abode,
And will not be at once gone through.
The sky's deep colour saddens you,
And the heat weighs a dreamy load.