The Beauty of Nature's Grief

The Beauty of Nature's Grief
[A prose poem]

The days in winter are piercing, insightful to the point of gloom!

Ah! There is amazement in the spell of this moment (produced by the sky), putting one’s self into a trance almost—, earnestly, drawing one’s fleeting look into the passion and imagination of the dim winter sky. Quietness, aloneness; branches from trees afar, reach into my view of the horizon (its sun bent redness, is putting on its chastity-belt, for soon twilight will dominate, will bend her into dusk. Only the littleness of it all do I see, its remoteness, from where I am in this here café looking out—, thus, the colors in the evening sky seem to have a melody to its dim rainbow. They say, as I think, “Reflect!” for in the grandeur of it all, the moment is soon lost, yes indeed, lost without dedication: twilight will pass.

All the same, these images in me somehow found this poem: projected from the birth of this here evening—to this intensity.

My nerves were tense today, now as I write, transmit (the evening away), the calls and ripples of the evening have calmed me.

The sky now yellow, red, tints of blue—, that skeleton of a tree still in my view; the sky confuses me somewhat. Yet it’s just one sunset out of many melting down. Perhaps the insensitiveness if it all, of the sky: for the sky irritates me tonight! I don’t want it to flee, eternally; even though I may see a new one tomorrow, “Let it be!” I say (but that’s desire, control, pride speaking).

The examining of beauty, if it sees you (and you it), will disappear if you do not grab its grief! (And so I have.)