A storm is coming on. The sky is working itself up, brooding, dark gray, an itch that wants to be scratched, a tension that's stretching thinner. The houses, cars, the street look like pieces on a Monopoly Board, waiting for something to happen to them. You can see the future in the trees' top branches, helpless in the wind's hands, in the small, flying scatters of leaves, in a flight of wrens broken into black scraps, hear it in the wind's low growl as it noses the walls of homes, prowls the canopies of the gum trees and maples.
Allan DiBiase
3/6/2013 12:10:07 am

the strange shape in the snow is the keel of a dory

As imperceptibly as Grief


As imperceptibly as Grief
The Summer lapsed away--
Too imperceptible at last
To seem like Perfidy--
A Quietness distilled
As Twilight long begun,
Or Nature spending with herself
Sequestered Afternoon--
The Dusk drew earlier in--
The Morning foreign shone--
A courteous, yet harrowing Grace,
As Guest, that would be gone--
And thus, without a Wing
Or service of a Keel
Our Summer made her light escape
Into the Beautiful.

Allan DiBiase
3/6/2013 12:11:49 am

or ED on "sequestration"

allan dibiase
3/6/2013 08:59:46 am

That is: Emily Dickinson (ED) Verse 1540.... that catalog numbering system of her verse was perhaps by Johnson? I think so.

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