Friday, September 22, 2006
It is noon.
The air is heavy with imminent rain.
Here I sit
In my study,
At my desk,
Face to face with a screen,
Flickering.
The light outside
Is gradient,
Soft.
It
Filters in through horizontal blinds and past
That, the fence is a row
Outside my window.
Beams cross neatly
Like arms folding -
They fold in the air
Inside,
Frame see-through panels that
Pretend to extend
The space.
Outside,
There is Green,Wind,
Sounds, motion.
Which begs the question:
Is this
My room?
How strange it is!
To think the curious I once found common
And the foreign, familiar.
Wonder every where
Suspended.
But all the while the cold grows
And the counter in my study,
On my desk,
In my head,
Slips flickering digits
Shamelessly by:
I am all too aware
Of its infallible precision,
Its infernal regularity,
But still
Sit helpless against
The advance.
planted @
5:10 AM
