Hilarity and sour scorn typify my reactions to
passions of the moment: I mean, seeing people
expend themselves into fugitive extremes, it
speaks poorly of the power of the mind to
govern any kind of distances: until you
consider that passions, except in intense
subduals too long range to bear, only come in
moments, so if you are to get any passion out
of life, you'll have to dig it out of narrow
spaces or squeeze all you have into slender,
if deep, circumstance: I myself have never
known what to do about anything: as I look
back, I see not even a clown but a clown's
clothes flapping on the clothesline of some
tizzy: is it really wise so to anticipate
and prepare for the storm, so to gauge it in
terms of other storms, that when the fierce
lightning breaks and high wind falls blunt
against you you just look away with a numb
nonchalance: what about the splintering free
of the green branches, the bubbly pelt and
spray of windy rain on sudden pools, what
about the vigorous runaway of rivulets finding
themselves: what, what, did not the vibrance
of the ground in that thud click your teeth:
think of the tranquility, all passion spent,
when the passion passes and you lie back in
a relief of sweet feeling; whereas, unspent,
you would just growl your way into the next
worry of the next storm: hark, the bells are
ringing, the announcements are in preparation,
it is time for singing. . . .
-- Archie Ammons
Rosemary Framed in Gold
49 minutes ago