Lucky to evaporate in the cushioning sun. even in this historic wind, that changes the weather in a moment. seeds called snowflakes have blown across catastrophic miles, to bring an impulse we know as what our winter is. it is like this, I say to my wife, who is newish to these parts. winter is this place, I share with her. she’s seen winters of deeper snow and harder cold, but I share the special numbers and degrees of this birthplace, which I recognize as close to me. the sun is a hard case sometimes. my wife and I have seen weather in many guises already in our counted months together. this is the deliberation of what we learn, in tired trials (sometimes) and lightly spent evenings. we will have a glass of wine, temperate and without pace, or sometimes during the day, a cup of lasting coffee. we kiss in public, because weather is just and complete: it resides everywhere. and besides that fulcrum I must add the conviction that there is no public. I mean, sometimes I am nervous and noticing, but instead and in chorus, mostly, the public is just an idea to trail, if one wants. one shouldn’t want, I imagine. I imagine, instead, that all weather joins us to the day. the coming hard grey clouds will be one faction, and we’ll share it. my wife sleeps and misses the glimpse of pink that painted the early clouds. in degrees that brief massage will be gone, and the flecks of frozen water, crystallized for us, will tumble in a surface of reflection. the snow on the ground knows how to translate to the sky again without melting, a Biblical sort of immediacy. here we found ourselves guided by reward, or the sensitive distribution of our frail, loving ideas. my own coastal fears liquefy in a slow process but I know my wife is my day. the weather finds a hesitating channel of change, in our strange mild winter, and we will take this key and turn it. adjustments are natural. the clouds grow plump with tidings of snow. winter is with us, in a throbbing condition and detail, but we also change in several views, daily and fittingly. we’ll hold hands as the snow falls, and as evening melts into summer.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
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