waiting for persephone (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens)

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I run into David in the entryway of the Social Work building and he tells me he is writing villanelles, and I am reminded of the artistry of Sylvia Plath, and her Mad Girl's Love Song.

. . .

It's hard to convey the import of the gift of a blue sky to those who see one daily.

The light is so unexpected, it makes the world look iridescent.


Still, it doesn't exorcise the sense of abandonment here, like a resort emptied of its vacationers.





I feel oddly drawn to the desolate beauty anyway, the vastness of the space of silence, the heavy linger of death, or hibernation.




somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence. . .
(e.e. cummings)