Tuesday, December 7, 2004

The storm blew through and past. It knocked a few shards of sleet into the window glass, deposited an inch or so of snow, and that was that. It has left behind this gray day of slush and discomfort. Indoors we are warm and contented with our words and our hot feral blend, the laundry drying in its hot drum, the aspen smoldering on the pine. Cats crouch near with their feet tucked under, staring out the windows, waiting for sun. 1:44:23 PM    comment []

Poem Written in a Copy of Beowulf by Jorge Luis Borges (trans. Alastair Reid) At various times I have asked myself what reasons Moved me to study while my night came down, Without particular hope of satisfaction, The language of the blunt-tongued Anglo-Saxons. Used up by the years my memory Loses its grip on words that I have vainly Repeated and repeated. My life in the same way Weaves and unweaves its weary history. Then I tell myself: it must be that the soul Has some secret sufficient way of knowing That it is immortal, that its vast encompassing Circle can take in all, can accomplish all. Beyond my anxiety and beyond this writing The universe waits, inexhaustible, inviting. 1:33:01 PM    comment []