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rejectomorphLate afternoons, the pines now shatter the sun and fling its limpid shards against my window. The polished green leaves of the mulberry snatch a few bits of light with which to turn themselves gold, but the window is still streaked with showered brightness. How can I sit here when such a rare, liquid light is being given away? I go out to gather it, like a bee collecting nectar from the year's last flower.
Later, the waxing moon is low in the sky, its light caught by the same pines, but the pale silver fails to reach my window. Again, I must go out, to be dimly lit as I watch the stars emerge. The last cricket's chirps are slow, hanging in the still, cool night air which smells of wood smoke. So many distractions, I'll never get anything done.
Later, the waxing moon is low in the sky, its light caught by the same pines, but the pale silver fails to reach my window. Again, I must go out, to be dimly lit as I watch the stars emerge. The last cricket's chirps are slow, hanging in the still, cool night air which smells of wood smoke. So many distractions, I'll never get anything done.
