Rush

[rejectomorph]

Freed of clouds, the sky allows a bit of heat to escape. The night breeze is now almost cool, though dawn already nears. Venus rises just before the east begins to turn cerulean. Birds, eager to enjoy what mildness the earliest hours offer, chirp and flutter while most of the landscape is yet dark. I would delay this dawn another hour at least, but the earth is bound to roll over and dump us into the glare. At least each turn hurries July to an end. That can't be too soon for me.



Sunday Verse

Poem Written at Morning

by Wallace Stevens


A sunny day's complete Poussiniana
Divide it from itself. It is this or that
And it is not.
By metaphor you paint
A thing. Thus, the pineapple was a leather fruit,
A fruit for pewter, thorned and palmed and blue,
To be served by men of ice.
The senses paint
By metaphor. The juice was fragranter
Than wettest cinnamon. It was cribled pears
Dripping a morning sap.
The truth must be
That you do not see, you experience, you feel,
That the buxom eye brings merely its element
To the total thing, a shapeless giant forced
Upward.
Green were the curls upon that head.



Extra: Nicolas Poussin at the Artchive.

I also searched for a recipe for poussin prepared in some way with pineapple, but couldn't find one.

I get weird when my skull is crushing my brain.