November Chill

[rejectomorph]

The slap of a fat newspaper on the driveway tells me that it is Sunday again. Surely, it was Sunday but two or three days ago! Somehow, the week has been shortened, the days carved out by some thief of time. More than half of autumn is gone. Now another moonless night hurls me toward winter. There are no clouds to reflect the town's light, and the forest is no more than deep darkness, making a ragged edge for a silken sprinkling of stars. All detail is absent. There is no sound but the occasional fall of a leaf- not even a whispering of pine needles stirred by breeze. The air holds only the faintest scent of damp earth and wood. The only sense this night will stimulate is touch. It is cold. I shiver and go indoors.



Sunday Verse

Under Cygnus

by Richard Wilbur


Who says I shall not straighten till I bend,
And must be broken if I hope to mend?
Did Samson gain by being chained and blind?
Dark heaven hints at something of the kind.
Seeing that as we beat toward Hercules
Our flank is compassed by the galaxy's,
And we drawn off from our intended course
By a grand reel of stars whose banded force,
Catching us up, makes light of all our loss,
And dances us into the Northern Cross.

Well, if I must surrender and be gay
In the wrong pasture of the Milky Way,
If in the Cross I must resign my Sword,
To hang among the trophies of the Lord,
Let my distinction not consist alone
In having let myself be overthrown.
It was my loves and labors, carried high,
Which drove the flight that heaven turns awry,
My dreams which told the stars what they should tell.
Let the Swan, dying, sing of that as well.