Thursday, January 09, 2014
At a party, an eccentric pair of eyes,
hollowed, all aglow with homing instinct,
ready to flee South to fishing grounds:
to Alabama, rivers, sands and sea;
wondered aloud why snow, and how
it managed to conceal cabin windows,
yet reveal the tracks to wolves' secret lairs,
during the years of his sojourn with solitude,
and mused on days measured in tromps to the lake,
by the number of visits by moose,
counting hills traversed by snow-shoe,
cranberry muffin recipes and stacks of firewood,
till I reminded him that once, emerging from hibernation,
he spied a neighbor fallen through the ice,
threw out a line and labored, wrestling the man
from the brink of the coldest embrace.
"Come to think of it," leaping like a lure,
the eyes flashed, reminiscing, over at his host,
"maybe that's the real reason I ended
up in that place after all," and his mouth,
crimped by self-doubt, relaxed into a pursed
smile, then commenced the narration of his tale.
Rilke (Leonid Pasternak, 1900) Image credit to Wikimedia Commons GONG Sound, no longer measurable with the sense of hearing. As ...
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