'The light persists, the lamp is lost'

"Real happiness lies in the little things, in a bit of garden work, in the rattle of the teacups in the next room, in the last chapter of a book."

--Barbellion.

I haven't read this, but it was recommended by anton (which means, as of necessity, that it must be worth reading).

Max Blecher, Adventures in Immediate Irreality; F. Rosenzweig.

To hold on to the world, to life, the same as holding a single flower in one's hands. Life was everywhere, then it wasn't. 

k

Of Merwin, or someone, "I", who was it now...it was said, these emotions, "these emotions they drift in from elsewhere; the vessel is empty until sadness, or grief, or expectation blows in and settles briefly inside it."

This blue flickering light of my childhood, ankle-high mist in the dry stubble of cornfields. Tell me again, fish, and see if I can remember my name, when I see you in my dream.

Early morning
quiet
When everyone's left, no-one
's left
The slow creaking of the house returns
like an abandoned ship moored in frozen water.

The slow winter sun
enters your room.
Extends its fingers to the table.
Strikes the glass like an idea. 

circles it. the only way it knows.

The light is not reflected, not refracted,
not absorbed, not sharpened,
not deflected, not delayed.

The light of the sun simply becomes more intense
in the sleeping world,
quickened into a dazzling singleness of purpose.

Holds the colours it contains at bay,
just under its surface,
like the way a face offers only a glimpse
of all its life.

Waits, waits for eternity for this one perfect moment.
Then re-merges on the other side, a line of beauty unknown.
Shadows fall all around
and the empty glass breathes again.