Fish Blood
by Gustav Klimt, 1898
THE PERFECT BALANCE OF THE SPIRAL
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove
I started out to tell you something,
Something of the morning, the exclamations
Birds orchestrate as marks of color
Against the insistence light makes
Upon us as we move slowly away
From sleep and into the crisp
Air of Autumn before everyone
Is awake and we can sit for a moment
As the day establishes itself in our
Minds as something substantial but untouchable.
But I got lost turning around and
Around on the lawns far from
The house, eyes open, seeing that
Small grove of trees, then the
Lane toward the house, the creek,
Its stone bridge, the two hills
With the folly upon the higher one
Trying to find a classical landscape
This close to the city, finally,
The house itself with the window
Glass looking golden and unreal
As I reeled round and round.
Perhaps a song would help here
But the whole thing will not stop
Turning and the earth itself knows
That and continues to throw up
Wonder upon wonder into our being
Here in early October. It has its
Own music. The birds still sing
In the nighttime and we have a piece
Of the whitest moon to take to
Our beds as we move through the
Picture galleries and the night views
Of the fountains from the second
Floor toward the garden.
We hear string music come from afar.
Closing our eyes for a moment
We find the balance once again,
The bowing to each other, the delicious
Fragility of the dance.
____________________
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove
I started out to tell you something,
Something of the morning, the exclamations
Birds orchestrate as marks of color
Against the insistence light makes
Upon us as we move slowly away
From sleep and into the crisp
Air of Autumn before everyone
Is awake and we can sit for a moment
As the day establishes itself in our
Minds as something substantial but untouchable.
But I got lost turning around and
Around on the lawns far from
The house, eyes open, seeing that
Small grove of trees, then the
Lane toward the house, the creek,
Its stone bridge, the two hills
With the folly upon the higher one
Trying to find a classical landscape
This close to the city, finally,
The house itself with the window
Glass looking golden and unreal
As I reeled round and round.
Perhaps a song would help here
But the whole thing will not stop
Turning and the earth itself knows
That and continues to throw up
Wonder upon wonder into our being
Here in early October. It has its
Own music. The birds still sing
In the nighttime and we have a piece
Of the whitest moon to take to
Our beds as we move through the
Picture galleries and the night views
Of the fountains from the second
Floor toward the garden.
We hear string music come from afar.
Closing our eyes for a moment
We find the balance once again,
The bowing to each other, the delicious
Fragility of the dance.
____________________
—Medusa
(Did you remember to set your clocks back? Does it matter?)