Solstice. Up today and reading Harrison’s Letters to Yesenin. The wood stove ticking like the clock that hung on the wall until I took it down, mercifully placing it in the pantry where it can better serve to remind the canned goods of their shelf life. Better them than me. Of course when I look out the window and see a sun that like everything it bathes is colorless, I consider pulling that time piece from its dark cave so I might ride with the second hand in clockwise [sic] circles, advancing across the all-too-familiar face. Enough laps and we will cross the finish line of spring. To say nothing of the beautiful, ineluctable months of winter seems in cultural vogue. I’ll mention only last night’s lunar eclipse floating miles above in a cold, airborne sea. A slightly azure moon, something dulled by our earth and made interesting again, shone tarnished.
The full moon in various states of exposure:
