Friday, May 4, 2018
Pull back this curtain of snow . . .
The stream: an advancing murmur, escorted by that
of the trees, of the birds hidden along its edges.
In Atoms of Silence, Hubert Reeves writes that
time passes more slowly at the bottom of a valley than
on the top of a mountain.
Of the pilgrim, he says: 'He must be taught to live
in the space between knowledge and vision, and to
take the precise steps that will lead him to the truth.'
There was that late winter, saturated with frigid
lights as if we were already being pursued by a
swarm of hail with most tender stings.
Then the knot of brooks came undone
like a braid.
The hail lived in the trees for a short
time . . .
The comet, sparkling, observed yesterday in the icy
night: nothing more than a dandelion's feathery
Afternoon heat. The sky almost incandescent just
above the rooftops, light blue higher up, where even
the swifts appear calmer, less greedy, almost always
taking time to glide.
'The cold season.' It could be a title. Nothing that
burns, nothing that devours. As when we leave, and
naturally it's the case, whether we like it or not.
Nevertheless, the world is still there; the foliage
shines; the light on the morning horizon is a white
haze. The spider webs are also shining in the window,
fragile and tenacious — exemplary in this. There is no
way to feign 'perfect joy'.