"Poor man. Poor mankind."
—Faulkner, Light in August

Dear Earth

I
Only a few of us noticed a sickly sprout had cracked its seedy shell
        and broken through the fallow bed;
But we had grown accustomed to the shriveled stalk and rancid fruit—
        the work of a gardener long forgot—
And so went about our business and deemed so tiny a life
        not worth the turning of our listless head.
(Besides, surely nature's strength would find a way, we said,
        moistening our hard and undeserving plot.)

Ah, despite distraction and untilled dreams, our season of drought and
        dust would not forever be:
Soon the fountains of the great deep, pressing hard our wanton valley,
        would amply treat us well and hide
The feckless years of disbelief—  But all our green could not outwait the
        hope of fair fortune's prophecy …
Alas! I prayed, wandering bead to bead: our little sprout had
        withered and died.

II
Splendor tried, for me, to fake it,
By fashioning a rootless plant and stake it.

Others sought to profit here
From trends that warmed the pit of fear.

By night the cold demanded fire,
And we made camp with dull desire.

I sat by embers overcome and long,
In case my howls brought forth a song.

READING: Atlas Shrugged, by Ayn Rand

LISTENING: Vampire Weekend

STUDYING: World War I

VIEWING: Sister Wendy

READING: He That Cometh, by Sigmund Mowinkel

VIEWING: Sons of Anarchy

WRITING: Sheol

VIEWING: Sons of Anarchy

WRITING: The Year of Mythical Living

LISTENING: Mendelssohn

FRIENDS OF SIRIANO ...

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