Spectacularly cold is relative; I suppose that others are observing in parkas, shivering in winds more wicked, and snow tormented by northwesterlies, an assist to the dropping ambient temperature, well past discomfort.
But there it is — low forties with windchill sub-thirty in Florida — it feels, to thin-blooded me, especially cold as I watch the shadow of Earth consume the disc of a full wolf moon. Bit by mile, the brightness is snuffed.
Intermedio I never fully learned musical notation, never mastered painting, acting (Intermedio: musical work between acts) or dance. Now I fight, pressing myself to attainment of something beyond novice, accomplishing some slight recognition of craftsmanship at the art of written communication. I flail my back and shoulders, donn a hair shirt, hoping to produce art before my eclipse.
Nothing much to say long ago; fearful of saying nothing relevant in the couda.
Coda The night sky is sumptuous, gems strewn on a Scotch Blue cloth, the center a blood ruby moon — all light devoured, fearfully… wonderfully quiet. (Coda is from Latin, couda, meaning tail)The north wind pierces.
Branches of our oaks rattle; we silently applaud the once-only viewing, wordless.
Inside, the port and the blanket warmed in the dryer, do little to revive me — undone by cold and exhaustion, and the moon.
My mother’s grave is covered now in gold and yellows mums; I never visit there. The wind in winter blows too rough and cold; I lack the strength to stand the frigid air against my face; my hands would only ache. Sucking in the chill my lungs burn dry, I’d gasp and clutch a tree against the break- neck speed of gales and squalls that singe my eye. No, I remain deep in the south where warm, the sun can only do me good, and think of how the snow drifts round the stone in storms; where frozen mums are waiting roses pink to kiss the face of God when time is done and scatter blossoms all about in sun.
Fire from heaven he kept in the suit-coat pocket, folded notes in leaves of the combat bible — sweating as he climbed the dais. His gaze sharp, scanning the rows. The agitated ones, his targeted words aimed at their throats. Convicting in mind. Grace tied and silenced.
Thirty minutes became an hour under the weight of his tongue. Choruses sung coercively. Brimstone smoldered.
End of story — much smoke, no light.
* * *
Victoria is hosting Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub and she has us all hot under the (clerical) collar with a call for poets to bring “Fire.” Sheesh! Doesn’t she realize how dangerous that could be?!?