Monday, December 1, 2008
The day – again – surrenders incrementally –
fractally gives up its shimmering and silver soul
with such a vigilant determination that you can’t
imagine it could ever come back whole. Faith
may be defined, perhaps, by that: reliance on
the expectation that the sun will once more
rise up, free and fat – and you’ll awake to see it.
No drama from its point-of-view at all, despite
that its obliqueness has begun to sing the lethal
end of Fall and spiral faster, faster into vaster
Moscow depths of Winter. Light will splinter
like Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique through ice then:
shadow sorrowfully and more swiftly into night.
But now’s the sleeker sweeter time for Debussy –
Ravel – French music spinning spells: pale
charming dips into the stylish cool before
the deadly freeze: a tantalizing proto-Winter
breeze accompanying elegantly fading
brightness in a deft Parisian dance: New York
will soon depart for Russia: now it visits France.