It’s snowing on my blog. Did you notice?

Via A Poet Reflects:

I love the winter light, so thin, so unbuttery,
Transparent as plastic wrap
Clinging so effortlessly
to whatever it skins over.

—Charles Wright, from “14” in Littlefoot: A Poem (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2007)

Painting: Pete Fiore, The Point, Late December, n.d.

“The world has an infinite beauty, but not, always, for us.” ~ Charles Wright, from “Scar Tissue II”

“Blue Cornflowers and Orange Tree” (nd)
by Pol Ledent

                   

“Who knows the heart of another’s heart?
Our lives are the length of a struck match,
And our days are sure to end in a dark confusion.” ~ Charles Wright, from “Buffalo Yoga”

Reblogged from Other-wordly and A Poet Reflects:

                     

Music by Justin Vernon and Aaron Dessner, “Big Red Machine”

                    

October

The leaves fall from my fingers
Cornflowers scattered across the field like stars,
like smoke stars,
By the train tracks, the leaves in a drift

Under the slow clouds
and the nine steps to heaven,
The light falling in great sheets through the trees,
Sheets almost tangible.

The transfiguration will start like this, I think,
breathless,
Quick blade through the trees,
Something with red colors falling away from my hands,

The air beginning to go cold …
And when it does
I’ll rise from this tired body, a blood-knot of light,
Ready to take the darkness in.

—Or for the wind to come
And carry me, bone by bone, through the sky,
Its wafer a burn on my tongue,
its wine deep forgetfulness.

~ Charles Wright

“These are the windows my mother yellowed|with daffodils.” ~ Elizabeth Bruno, from “Kitchen Daffodils”

Reblogged from A Poet Reflects:

He Brings Flowers

You brought petunias and hung them on my back porch,
their flower heads delicate as a suicide’s wrist. You mentioned
the sun, how it wrinkles foliage like discarded basil, like spinach
stuck to a well-used salad bowl. I know about the sun’s weighty
gifts, how tulips close each evening like a prayer’s palm, then open
skyward as the daylight presses. Since you’ve left, I’ve grown fond
of twilight, of jasmine and primrose, of flowers only opening
at night; their redolence set free like new moths.

~ Elizabeth Bruno