… for now, the morns are meeker than they were …
… and the crows above the forest call; tomorrow they may form and go …
… there are that resting, rise. can i expound the skies? a few prosaic days … a few incisive mornings …
… the time was neither wrong nor right — i have been one acquainted with the night…
… past midnight! past the morning star! past sunrise! ah, what leagues there were between our feet, and day!
… summer was past and the day was past; somber clouds in the west were massed…
a slash of blue — a sweep of gray — some scarlet patches on the way compose an evening sky …
… she’s glad the birds are gone away … she loves the bare, the withered tree; the desolate, deserted trees, the faded earth, the heavy sky …
… they have done expecting me — when night — descending — dumb — and dark … brewed from decades of agony …
… i have outwalked the furthest city light.
After Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost and Paul Simon.
