51/107: Bright
Dec. 29th, 2024 11:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphThe noon turned bright after a pale morning. I finally had Saturday's dinner for Sunday lunch. The long night of repeatedly returning to sleep is now as dim as was the dawn that barely displaced it. Early on there was brief rain, but now it seems the only thing on the radar headed this way is a thunderstorm which might bring high winds and hail later this afternoon. And the big storm that was to arrive Monday has vanished from the forecast.
How does that even happen? I'm now quite disappointed. The only rain in the ten day forecast is some showers next Friday. I feel cheated. I also feel very tired, and intend to take a nap soon, but the bright light does not bode well for that. If that thunderstorm arrives and darkens my window I'll have cause for gratitude. I'd have even more if my neck quit hurting. But Sunday, so at least no mail to get wet and thus no cause to go out rain or shine.
Sunday Verse
by Conrad Aiken
Beloved, let us once more praise the rain.
Let us discover some new alphabet,
For this, the often praised; and be ourselves,
The rain, the chickweed, and the burdock leaf,
The green-white privet flower, the spotted stone,
And all that welcomes the rain; the sparrow too,—
Who watches with a hard eye from seclusion,
Beneath the elm-tree bough, till rain is done.
There is an oriole who, upside down,
Hangs at his nest, and flicks an orange wing,—
Under a tree as dead and still as lead;
There is a single leaf, in all this heaven
Of leaves, which rain has loosened from its twig:
The stem breaks, and it falls, but it is caught
Upon a sister leaf, and thus she hangs;
There is an acorn cup, beside a mushroom
Which catches three drops from the stooping cloud.
The timid bee goes back to the hive; the fly
Under the broad leaf of the hollyhock
Perpends stupid with cold; the raindark snail
Surveys the wet world from a watery stone...
And still the syllables of water whisper:
The wheel of cloud whirs slowly: while we wait
In the dark room; and in your heart I find
One silver raindrop,—on a hawthorn leaf,—
Orion in a cobweb, and the World.
How does that even happen? I'm now quite disappointed. The only rain in the ten day forecast is some showers next Friday. I feel cheated. I also feel very tired, and intend to take a nap soon, but the bright light does not bode well for that. If that thunderstorm arrives and darkens my window I'll have cause for gratitude. I'd have even more if my neck quit hurting. But Sunday, so at least no mail to get wet and thus no cause to go out rain or shine.
Sunday Verse
Beloved, Let Us Once More Praise The Rain
by Conrad Aiken
Beloved, let us once more praise the rain.
Let us discover some new alphabet,
For this, the often praised; and be ourselves,
The rain, the chickweed, and the burdock leaf,
The green-white privet flower, the spotted stone,
And all that welcomes the rain; the sparrow too,—
Who watches with a hard eye from seclusion,
Beneath the elm-tree bough, till rain is done.
There is an oriole who, upside down,
Hangs at his nest, and flicks an orange wing,—
Under a tree as dead and still as lead;
There is a single leaf, in all this heaven
Of leaves, which rain has loosened from its twig:
The stem breaks, and it falls, but it is caught
Upon a sister leaf, and thus she hangs;
There is an acorn cup, beside a mushroom
Which catches three drops from the stooping cloud.
The timid bee goes back to the hive; the fly
Under the broad leaf of the hollyhock
Perpends stupid with cold; the raindark snail
Surveys the wet world from a watery stone...
And still the syllables of water whisper:
The wheel of cloud whirs slowly: while we wait
In the dark room; and in your heart I find
One silver raindrop,—on a hawthorn leaf,—
Orion in a cobweb, and the World.
