THE POEMS OF OUR CLIMATE
Clear water in a brilliant bowl,
Pink and white carnations. The light
In the room more like a snowy air,
Reflecting snow. A newly-fallen snow
At the end of winter when afternoons return.
Pink and white carnations - one desires
So much more than that. The day itself
Is simplified: a bowl of white,
Cold, a cold porcelain, low and round,
With nothing more than the carnations there.
Say even that this complete simplicity
Stripped one of all one's torments, concealed
The evilly compounded, vital I
And made it fresh in a world of white,
A world of clear water, brilliant-edged,
Still one would want more, one would need more,
More than a world of white and snowy scents.
There would still remain the never-resting mind,
So that one would want to escape, come back
To what had been so long composed.
The imperfect is our paradise.
Note that, in this bitterness, delight,
Since the imperfect is so hot in us,
Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.”
- Wallace Stevens
Water. Never enough and always the answer.
|Water with mint & cucumber, always on the counter.|
Flowers. Earth connected with you on a bridge of beauty.
|Newest Hydrangea blossoms in an enamel pail I found in the basement.|
Here are wildflowers and mint. Not just any wine bottle can stand in for the vases we don't have. (Love the wine, too. Opici, $10.50.)