Certain messages that I compose on the electronic screen disappear
before they can be saved, or even before I can put in the final, telling
word. Perhaps they should not be written
at all. But who can help thinking them?
I have forgotten the reason why we quarreled many years ago. But I cannot abide their faces or their
memories. If they came into my sight,
they would blacken my thoughts. I will
not slander them in public, however much they keep me from peaceful dreams.
As slush is to snow, so unfulfilled hopes are to old age.
Finally, someone chopped away the sharp stiff branches that scraped my
arms every time I passed. It is a
relief, though I have no reason to walk on that path.
A sickly old hedgehog creeps through our yard, partaking of the crumbs
and grain we throw out for the birds.
This creature has no quills. His
color is ghastly grey. From now on I will
toss extra food on to the grass.
Schlegel, Hegel—are they philosophers or descriptions of the weather and
does it matter?
The blackbirds in the garden are sensitive and full of scruples. They fly away as soon as someone passes by
the window. They will not eat their
scarps of food unless the sparrows and the other small birds have checked it
out. I used to be like that with new
ideas. Now I am always unhappy with the
crumbs.
Gardens framed by mist, uncomfortable in winter, yet somehow shelter the
sun. The long walk by the river, with
the noise of big trucks rumbling by, our simulacrum of nature. When summer comes, dry and angular beams to
blind us, we dream back to the absence of places to rest. All this, like broken rainbows scattered
between the clouds and the almost orange margin of the sun. We cannot command the weather we inherit.
I once thought there were too many penguins on the lawn and advised
caution when walking through the grass.
But, as I said, there can never be too many of them. Now I wonder if they were not Antarctic birds
at all but rather pumpkins in disguise.
In that case, there would never be enough.
No comments:
Post a Comment