Three days of rain – occasionally alternating with swiftly-moving clouds and a few brief breaks of sunlight, strange sunlight ever since the eclipse – seem to have had a wayward effect on my mood. Today is due to be overcast, but without any hard rain or wind, which characterized yesterday’s rollercoaster of emotions. This will likely be the only post of the day, and so I shall pepper it with lots of whimsical links so if your day runs into any doldrums, find your way back here and click away. I’m going to step off-line and find meaning there, where meaning has always resided. In my absence, a few lines from someone far more skilled than me.
A poem by e.e. cummings, who mastered an exquisite economy of words:
Spring is like a perhaps hand
Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere) arranging
a window, into which people look (while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and
changing everything carefully
spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things, while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there) and
without breaking anything.
