march marches forward with or without.
today was the first winter slurring of the weather to cross wellington sky's lips. it rained the only way this place knows how to rain: in a sputtering grey wet fog of damp bluster. i optimistically wore wool anyway in acceptance of a drop in temperature, but nothing else. denial is less functional in dealings with mother nature i find. ack. i
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I went to see Kimiko Hahn read her poetry today, and met her, and bought a book. This is the cover of the book. As I was walking home, looking at the cover of the book, I recognized a continuation of an uncanny theme, and thought of you.
you are loved.
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Once in its life the yucca moth alights
on the yucca flower which blooms a single evening.
Imagine the black against tepid black outline
and the whir of wings before the moth
gathers pollen, kneads it into a ball
and travels to a second blossom
where it cuts open the pistil, lays its eggs inside
then stuffs the pellet into that canal. What
dream informs the caterpillar,
what fragrance besides death--and what hand
will lift the blinds beside my bed
when the lover is drinking a first cup of coffee
a hundred miles away I wish I knew.
And what image allows one to take that one flight?
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