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rejectomorphDead of night lasts hours when the moon has waned to a thin crescent. Tonight, the dark was deepened by the clouds which filled the west. There was wind as well, and a chill which silenced the crickets early. For the moment, silence has fallen, and my open window brings a sinking air that is cold and damp, which I eagerly inhale. This is what the night air of early spring should be, and I have missed it in this uncommonly warm, dry season.
A while ago, a porch light was lit and illuminated the largest dogwood, making the blossoms look like frost. I tried to imagine that it was winter, but the fantasy failed. I hoped that the wind would blow the veils from my mind, but that too failed. It is that spring is to be a time of beginnings, and I am faced with endings. The incongruity has disrupted my thoughts and left me scrambling for metaphors. I suppose I'll simply have to wait for some future time of tranquility in which to order these recollected days. But at the moment, I can't imagine such a time.
A while ago, a porch light was lit and illuminated the largest dogwood, making the blossoms look like frost. I tried to imagine that it was winter, but the fantasy failed. I hoped that the wind would blow the veils from my mind, but that too failed. It is that spring is to be a time of beginnings, and I am faced with endings. The incongruity has disrupted my thoughts and left me scrambling for metaphors. I suppose I'll simply have to wait for some future time of tranquility in which to order these recollected days. But at the moment, I can't imagine such a time.
