Winter Trees

Winter Trees

by William Carlos Williams
~~

All the complicated details

of the attiring and

the disattiring are completed!

A liquid moon

moves gently among

the long branches.

Thus having prepared their buds

against a sure winter

the wise trees

stand sleeping in the cold. 

 It is just too cold, too wet, and too icy in the Hollow today.  G is smoking us out of the house, though, by lighting the wood stove for the first time this season.  I'd like to say that the girls and I sitting back, eating chili, and reading poetry, but that would be a flat out lie.  They are playing Roblox, turning their noses up at my chili, and asking for ice cream instead.  And so it goes.   

New Year

My Jewish ancestors had it right; this is the newest time of year -- "Shanah Tovah":

The New Year

  by Emma Lazarus

Rosh-Hashanah, 5643

Not while the snow-shroud round dead earth is rolled,
      And naked branches point to frozen skies.—
When orchards burn their lamps of fiery gold,
      The grape glows like a jewel, and the corn
A sea of beauty and abundance lies,
                      Then the new year is born.

Look where the mother of the months uplifts
      In the green clearness of the unsunned West,
Her ivory horn of plenty, dropping gifts,
      Cool, harvest-feeding dews, fine-winnowed light;
Tired labor with fruition, joy and rest
                      Profusely to requite.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/22840#sthash.vsPnEqpE.dpuThe New Year

The New Year
       by Emma Lazarus
Rosh-Hashanah, 5643

Not while the snow-shroud round dead earth is rolled, 

And naked branches point to frozen skies.— 

When orchards burn their lamps of fiery gold, 

The grape glows like a jewel, and the corn 

A sea of beauty and abundance lies, 

Then the new year is born. 

Look where the mother of the months uplifts 

In the green clearness of the unsunned West, 

Her ivory horn of plenty, dropping gifts, 

Cool, harvest-feeding dews, fine-winnowed light; 

Tired labor with fruition, joy and rest 

Profusely to requite. 

 

Not while the snow-shroud round dead earth is rolled, And naked branches point to frozen skies.— When orchards burn their lamps of fiery gold, The grape glows like a jewel, and the corn A sea of beauty and abundance lies, Then the new year is born. Look where the mother of the months uplifts In the green clearness of the unsunned West, Her ivory horn of plenty, dropping gifts, Cool, harvest-feeding dews, fine-winnowed light; Tired labor with fruition, joy and rest Profusely to requite. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/22840#sthash.vsPnEqpE.dpuf

Rosh-Hashanah, 5643

Rosh-Hashanah, 5643

Idiotic April

Spring
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. We are way past the spikes of crocus season, Ms. St. Vincent Millay, and deep into the pinks and yellows.  I didn't remember this poem being such a downer, but it surely is fitting for this opening day of April, of Poetry Month, of yet another day of burning sinuses . . .   our friends the Marlins' farm at Antietam from Canal Road

A Shell of a Poem

The locusts pulsate and pulse and soundtrack this thick twilight --
Your long little legs skip - I didn't know you could skip - across the straw so confidently.
The other you, you with the serious look, I wonder if you'll have this in your memory when you're 38.
The locusts buzz in my younger ears too -- the farm, the lightning bugs, the gnarled apple tree --
To capture this moment - those moments - in words -- will they then last into all our twilights?

Another Snowy Evening

I took this photo on Dec. 19, 2009. I easily could have taken it tonight. It's snowing again.

How about some thoughts from Mr. Frost?

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost (1923)

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.