The snow and the twilight have turned the air as cloudy blue as seaglass, so that trees, telephone poles, houses with yellow-lit windows, fade off much more quickly into the dusk as into fog. I shoveled the front walk and the driveway twice in the same hour and they don't look it. Three days ago, I walked into Harvard Square under such warmth of the sun that I was carrying my jacket over my arm before I'd gotten ten feet from the subway, thinking that any day now I could sing "Wild Mountain Thyme." This ghost-blue storm is midwinter, not less than a week from spring. I baked apples for dessert; I'm translating Greek lyric. Right now, I can live with this.
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Active Entries
- 1: You don't have to fly into the sun
- 2: And deregulate the couple at the bottom end
- 3: I had no inkling of just how far the plates of our continents would crack
- 4: And we're on the right side of the ground where they bury the bones
- 5: I'm not related to anyone
- 6: You are a case of the vapours
- 7: Now I feel like Kafka with a bad migraine
- 8: For when the heart's a sinking stone
- 9: Fierce as the Baltic sea
- 10: All the trees carve shards of light
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