of this black August. My sister, the sun,
broods in her yellow room and won't come out.
Everything goest to hell; the mountains fume
like a kettle, rivers overrun; still,
she will not rise and turn off the rain.
I saw both the lines of the poem and the stunning photo on my sister-in-law's blog this morning and thought I'd share them with you. The photo was taken by my talented brother, although my SIL is just as talented with a camera ... apparently she was in the bathroom when this photo opportunity showed itself.
(The poem is Dark August by Derek Walcott.)