52/459: Listening for Dusk
Jun. 7th, 2026 06:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphOh dear these days that are not yet summer and yet almost like. I could do without the early light, and even the late light is less to me than it once was. I can recall steamy dusks that felt like losses ending perfect joy, but now nightfall is full of anticipation for the coming coolness. I have I think no more joyful days outside memory, and the starless nights are assuaged by the air's exhalation of spent day. What will I do when the nights remain sultry? I don't know, but I'll soon find out.
Sunday Verse
by Jane Hirschfield
Only if I move my arm a certain way,
it comes back.
Or the way the light bends in the trees
this time of year,
so a scrap of sorrow, like a bird, lights on the heart.
I carry this in my body, seed
in an unswept corner, husk-encowled and seeming safe.
But they guard me, these small pains,
from growing sure
of myself and perhaps forgetting.
Sunday Verse
To Hear the Falling World
by Jane Hirschfield
Only if I move my arm a certain way,
it comes back.
Or the way the light bends in the trees
this time of year,
so a scrap of sorrow, like a bird, lights on the heart.
I carry this in my body, seed
in an unswept corner, husk-encowled and seeming safe.
But they guard me, these small pains,
from growing sure
of myself and perhaps forgetting.
