Wednesday wet weather a sluice
Rainy raw rampage of juice
Indicative of winter to come
Northeast Wind’s hoary hum
Season’s arbitrary excuse
Rent’s escalating sum
The minutes of this respite swiftly steal away
Dappled light on the whitewashed walls wanes
Tepid temperatures harbinger winter soon to come
A symphony of insects chitter a beleaguered song
Hoary men measure the tilting axis of the earth
Foliage quavers from an indifferent breeze
Voluminous cumulus clouds hover harvested fields
Red sun promises to disappear at the rotating fold
Slumber solicitous sweeps solitarily all away
Trees in the wood
Bend with excruciating pain
Dancing a wild Watusi
High waters high winds.
Fierce clouds pass over
Roiling bays and seas.
Gray Wraiths of smoke,
Deeming the invisible visible.
Roaring as a beast
Or a massive machine
The invisible becomes audible
Well beyond zephyr
Surf hammers a sandy shore
Constantly eroding infinite grains
To reside anew.
On their own
To set a new sail.
An heartless force
With or without course
Changes the landscape
From an unknown source.
Do there exist many worlds, or is there but a single world? This is one of the
most noble and exalted questions in the study of Nature.
– Albertus Magnus, thirteenth century
As I gaze on the wood; westerly lit
By a March sun, setting in a clearing sky
Reflections turn to those at their winter’s end
A friend’s father, a friend’s mother, mine own:
And all others: my friends and mine own…
The wood wavers less as the winds subside
Their shadows lengthen and the streams dry
Their shadows fade as the sun continues to glide
Somewhere between dark and light spirits fly
Gray now; decayed, obscured by phantom clouds
Brilliant, beautiful light resounds fleeting, recondite.
Morning beautiful, mourning still the rite.
–Robert Pennington Price