rejectomorph | The Lighted Hours

Clear winter nights, when the moon is near full, and it rises and sets at the northernmost extent of its annual course, I like to watch the shadows fall at those summery angles they assume. A clear, bright January night is like the ghost of a bright June day, and I easily sense the odd resonance of the year's turns, the way time echoes itself in its passing. So, I like the way a wisp of cloud tonight, revealed by the setting moon, suggested in its pale blue cast the daylight sky, and the way the wind, rising unexpectedly, reminded me of the sound of the ocean washing miles of sand, and the way the night birds' calls have put me in mind of games we played in vanished years, now as shadowy as the pine shapes creeping up my wall. Everywhere I have been is forever returning, gathering layers like nacred sand secreted in a shell's dark, slowly growing toward a moment of luminous emergence.

Sunday Verse

The Coming of Light

by Mark Strand

Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow's dust flares into breath.

Bonus Sunday Verse

Lines for Winter

by Mark Strand

Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself--
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.