Tuesday, January 21, 2014


These pictures were taken about a minute apart,
right at the moment when the light faded.
The sky changed from vivid to gray almost instantly.

Someone is dead.
Even the trees know it,
those poor old dancers who come on lewdly,
all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
I think . . .
I think I could have stopped it,
if I'd been as firm as a nurse
or noticed the neck of the driver
as he cheated the crosstown lights;
or later in the evening,
if I'd held my napkin over my mouth.
I think I could . . .
if I'd been different, or wise, or calm,
I think I could have charmed the table,
the stained dish or the hand of the dealer.
But it's done.
It's all used up.
There's no doubt about the trees
spreading their thin feet into the dry grass.
A Canada goose rides up,
spread out like a gray suede shirt,
honking his nose into the March wind.
In the entryway a cat breathes calmly
into her watery blue fur.
The supper dishes are over and the sun
unaccustomed to anything else
goes all the way down.
[ellipses in original]

~ Anne Sexton ~
[Also on my post: "As Darkness Falls Into Light"]

The next morning, 22 January, Gerry took this one:
"Sunrise, a new day"
That's the comforting thing about the sun:
unaccustomed to anything else, it goes all the way down;
then, the next morning, it comes all the way back up.

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