That Narrow Angle of a Certain Slant of Light
Big Cabin
I’ve been reading poetry from Ron Padgett, his book Big
Cabin from Coffee House Press.
“Timex Blur”—
I was going to complain
about how irritating it is
to have to change one’s clock
twice a year and not
understand why, but sunlight
just came down and hit
the pond and my brain
at the same time.
And, borrowing, from another poet, Emily Dickinson, there’s
a certain slant of light. It is jarring, that one hour difference. Suddenly I
am out at a “time” I’m normally doing something else; the routine is altered. For
example, last night after the switch to Standard Time, I rode home in the dark
on my bike. Luckily my lights were juiced up. Also—not quite dark—coming down
my street with the hazy dim and dark pines over the roadway there was a certain
slant of light, a new perspective which stood out in contrast to only a day
before. It was always there? Or was I afforded a view brought together by “the
switch” and the elements of weather and the earth on its axis in autumnal
surrender?
Or were my senses awakened because of fear and anticipation
of change, that all things go down to decay, just like the scattered leaves
under the wheels of my bike?
I was tired from working the last day of early voting in
Meridian Township, exhausted from the crush of voters. The early darkness added
to my wish to clean up and go to bed—but it was only 6 o’clock!! I couldn’t
shake the desire to curl up inside, yet also stay outside and watch the last
light leave the sky.
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