föstudagur, desember 11, 2009


It's freezing out -- not the adjective but the present progressive. The fallen leaves at the edges of the road are getting rimey, hoary, paperish. If only I rise early enough tomorrow, I will have the pleasure of crunching them underfoot like a colossus bent on long-prophesied destruction, like a vintner squeezing from his crop the juice of a winter wine.

If I feel guilt afterwards, I will make a note to pour a libation on the roots of the maple on the windward side of the house.

Engin ummæli:

Hvaðan þið eruð