Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Winter Tales

I was out last night.  No, not in a bar or restaurant or shopping.  I was out in the night.  I took the flashlight and mucked across the street to look for owls -- I heard them but they were too far into the 8 acres that live across the street from me to find.

But the night --- ah.  The Night.  I should paint it.

The sky was curdled with moving clouds and the half dome of a moon was so bright it cast those purplish/yellow -- nacre colored really-- halos around the outlines of the clouds and its prideful self.  Beautiful Moon you.  

I wish you were here to see it with me.   But of course I wouldn't want to be talking too much -- just looking up and sharing thoughts about it later.

After the trek I went into the hot tub (I know that sounds awfully disgusting but I always wanted one and about 8 years ago did it with income tax refund money).  The water was 103 -- perfect.  I laid with my head on the edge and stared up until my skin felt just about boiled.  I didn't want to stop looking.  Orion is up too.  With the clouds moving the sky felt more alive than usual.  I love the feeling of it -- is almost as if the stars and moon are scrolling by not the clouds.

I do love a cold winter sky even though I deny my love of the cold and winter.  I seem to be inspired most in the season of white death.

Star blood in the veins of the moon.  The bare trees flat and charcoal against the sky.  And the animal sounds.

I was reminded yesterday of a poet I like -- Patrick Lane.  I leave a short poem of his.  I think he and I are of the same branch.   I have never been modern.

You Fall Into Light

Someone loves you in the brief glance
the moon is when she rises.  Look at that light
as it holds the needles of the solitary pine,
the single feather above the sudden eye
that is an owl at rest, her prey
hanging from a fist of claws.  Your face
is salt and water.  An argument for dream
is as brief as the glance the moon gives.
It is the single touch you reach for.
Behind you your lover sleeps
and you are standing on the back steps.
Every moment as brief as this.  The owl
rises on soft wings.  The moon falls.

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