In early December, near the end of autumn,
leaves rustle in the twilight along Prospect Street
and dark limbs of the maples shape a twisted
colonnade. I walk through tender gloom
toward home. Lost in a tumbledown frame
of this fading season, I think of you again -
invisible now, behind a sheet of chilly rain
- silvery rings of hide and seek your game.
[p.s. What was I thinking of? Of a particular person. Also of Nicholas de Cusa's treatise Game of Spheres (De Ludo Globi), in which the spiritual life is figured as a sort of game - trying to reach felicity, at the center of nine concentric circles drawn in the dirt, with a lopsided ball). & of Mandelshtam's comment in one of his essays, that the work of artists after the Redemption is a game of hide and seek with God.]
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