#december morning

[possiblygewgaw]

Sunday

Clothes are hung up to dry on every terrace

a crisp breeze of detergent's scent lingers

The children are playing in the field

their carefree laughter is contagious

The gregarious birds seem a bit more free

they fly higher and higher with the wind's current

The veiled presence of insects is unveiled by

their gentle hum which weaves a serene melody

The sun rays glisten every building, plant and tower

as if every object rejoiced in the sun's warm ray of a leisurely Sunday

[aud-chron-images]

[poems-from-around-the-world]

December Morning - Kim Simonsen - Faroe

Translator: Randi Ward (Faroese)

The shore is soaked; the stones are slippery with green algae. I gather a handful of red whelks from a fresh tidal pool. I kick a limpet loose. At first light, between seaweed and the tides of time, morning is set in motion: a tipping bucket, an opening gate, a bygone vision of black ships sailing upon the sea’s canopies of plankton.

The gloomy sunrise has ended up a bright morning. The house is quiet; everything waits and wonders. The flowers are all gone; the bulbs and rhubarb are at rest. Now that I’ve circled the sun for the forty-fourth time, I’m learning to live here. The lawn is dying. A red berry on a branch dangles in the wind.

The steady roar of the waves— the shore transformed each morning. Kelp that swayed on the seafloor last night is wracked up in heaps of tangled blades and dead stalks on the sand. Birds sit on a branch. Small brown slugs slip under drifting leaves. Green moss colonizes a tree trunk; yellow fungus works its way into the wounded bark. The dead grass reaches all the way up to my knees.

To know that everything is an other world, always an other world. The grit of frosty leaves sandpapers the street. I come back in with my eyes watering from the cold. Ice crystals sparkle from a thousand directions at once. The sun is setting on the children walking home; the very tracks of their treaded soles are loved. Heavy sleeves of wet snow hang from branches.

I haven’t seen a brown slug since last summer. I’m trying to find my voice here. Wishing not to grow older is really about not wanting to lose my childhood again— not wanting to lose anything else at all. To stand amid the rising tide and undulating landscape clinging to the sand, and the red and brown seaweed, trying to take it all in and with me, trying not to forget anything inside this crumbling house. The wake of caving memories hits like heavy surf— to know that everything is an other world, always an other world. Fingers, red and tingling. The slug eggs scattered throughout the yard lie in wait.

The soil is black. The withered grass is brown, matted and stiff with wintery glaze. The sun lowers its cold gaze. We wait without knowing what’s going to happen.

The house is empty during the day. Furious squalls blow in off the bay. Breakers rip seaweed up and sling it about the sand. You aren’t here. A solitary cat slinks into the fenced yard. It will be dark again soon. Each day ends more quickly than it begins. Gusts send sand and blades of grass swirling against the window. The cat has vanished.

Time etches itself in ripples and grooves on the grey sand. Few friendships last. Everything is as banal as this sand. It’s raining more and more here, and families aren’t what they used to be. That’s what the experts say. The dead fish that washed ashore is shriveling up in the sun.

The landscape is the same. Once again, I’ve returned with the feeling that I’m living in a time warp – like I’ve arrived twenty years too late or too early – as though I’m slowly falling all the while smiling to the passersby. To daydream about the cold on a December morning and know that I’ve lost everything here— that nothing is as I remember it, that here the world is a blurry photograph superimposed on another bleary image until all faces are shattered and distorted by time.

A starling flock lights above red and black currant bushes. You’re crying on the phone again. A land is a construct that has to be recreated each day; this goes for the state and the nation— but not the landscape. We wished we could disappear in each other’s eyes.

I move through the trollish gorge between all that was, all that might now be, and all that may or may not come to pass. There’s a strength in the people who choose to live here but also great sorrow. I’ve turned off my iPhone. The starlings have flown; the berry bushes are still.

[aropride]

if you ever think "why bother posting my spotify wrapped/apple music replay nobody really cares anyway" think of ME. I CARE. i love that shit i love seeing what music people like and how many minutes they listened to music etc. PLEASE post them i love it i love ittttt it's like a holiday for me

[geopsych]

An early morning walk along the lake on this date in 2019.

[summerwages]

sprinkles...

[nordicchristmas]

42 days until Christmas Eve is here 🎄❄️

[without-ado]

Morning moon in December l Betul Turksoy

[dk-thrive]

Twilight to Sunrise. 6:56, 6:58, 7:05 to. 27° F, feels like 16° F. December 1, 2024. Cove Island Park. Stamford, CT. (@dkct25)

[asukachii]

In the summer-like colors running down my cheeks

The words that curse you are stuck in the back of my throat

"Will we meet again?"

[black and white version]

(I don’t like putting watermarks so, PLEASE, if you want to post these gifs somewhere GIVE CREDITS! Also, don’t use them in edits/videos. Thanks~)

[earththings]

[lifemod17]

‼️ A minute preview of Hymn To Virgil

Filmed and edited by the indelible Ruthlessimagery

Hozier on his socials

[royalarchivist]

Foolish has the uncanny ability to wander into tense lore situations while being completely oblivious about it every single time.

(Phil supports him 100%)

[chalamet-chalamet]

angel face

[geopsych]

Just a sprinkling of snow this morning over at the park fence.

[summerwages]

slow flow...