rejectomorph | 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:

The Descent of Winter

by William Carlos Williams

9/30

There are no perfect waves--
Your writings are a sea
full of misspellings and
faulty sentences. Level. Troubled

A center distant from the land
touched by the wings
of nearly silent birds
that never seem to rest--

This is the sadness of the sea--
waves like words, all broken--
a sameness of lifting and falling mood.

I lean watching the detail
of brittle crest, the delicate
imperfect foam, yellow weed
one piece like another--

There is no hope -- if not a coral
island slowly forming
to wait for birds to drop
the seed will make it habitable

10/22

that brilliant field
of rainwet orange
blanketed
by the red grass
and oilgreen bayberry

the last yarrow
on the gutter
white by the sandy
rainwater

and a white birch
with yellow leaves
and few
and loosely hung

and a young dog
jumped out
of the old barrel

10/28

in this strong light
the leafless beechtree
shines like a cloud

it seems to glow
of itself
with a soft stript light
of love
over the brittle
grass

But there are
on second look
a few yellow leaves
still shaking
far apart

just one here one there
trembling vividly