Abstract Autumn

I edited the previous blog entry into verse to go with this morning's photo:



Abstract Autumn

Monday morning arrives
in the company of last night's
clouds and winds.

It feels more like autumn.
Outside, the orange and ochre leaves
of unknown trees sway in the gusts
like little birds flying against a gale.

Spots of blue among
broken clouds in previous days
have been replaced by violet patches
juxtaposed against silvery white;
a ceiling of cotton candy.

Outside my window there are
gossamer remains of an
abandoned spider web.
Its owner long gone – a meal for a bird
or having found a safer home
has left its artwork in tatters,
silk becoming fodder
for an organic mobile;
part natural and part urban.

Calder would be proud
of the accomplishment.

Pollock would envy the wispy
flagellation of threads in air,
wishing he could have flung
paint half as well.

And Rothko,
he would be envious of the subtle,
beautiful, and melancholy
palette of this Autumn daybreak.

(November 13, 2006)

Windy Monday

Monday morning arrives in the company of last night's clouds and winds. It is feeling more like autumn. Outside, the orange and ochre leaves of unknown trees sway in the gusts like little birds flying against a gale. The spots of blue among the broken clouds in previous days have now been replaced by violet patches juxtaposed against silvery white like a ceiling of cotton candy. Outside my window there are the gossamer remains of an abandonned spider web. Its owner long gone, a meal for a bird or having found a new safer spot has left its artwork in tatters, materials becoming fodder for an organic mobile that is part natural and part urban. Even Calder would be proud for such an accomplishment. Even Pollock would envy the wispy movements of silk in the air, wishing he could have flung paint as such. And Rothko, he would be envious of the subtle beautiful but melancholy palette of this Autumn daybreak.

Sunday evening

It is mid evening. The day found me musing through photos and looking out the window. There were moments when I thought I might go outside but did not.

Afternoon into evening proceeded quietly. Now it is dark and the cold outside is trying to seep in through the double panes of glass. It is peaceful now yet I am restless. Still restless...

November Sunday

Today's morning came through the blinds lazily, distracted by the large fluffy grey clouds hanging from the earth's ceiling trying to decide if they would weep and grace us with heaven's tears. I rose to make tea in the cold autumn morning feeling the chill of the wooden floor for the first time in the season. This season's signs come to with incredible acuity this year. I am not sure why. Perhaps there is this morose feeling that it could be my last, as any season or moment could be anyone's last. In this frame of mind I try to pay attention. It is hard to know if I am successful. For without a doubt as I pay more attention to some things, others will be missed. That is okay though, I am merely reminded that I am just flesh and bones, some grey matter and mostly water...