Showing posts from December, 2017

December's End. Forecast for Snow.

"Some people love waking to the sight of new snow. Fallen snow is fine, but I like the sight of it falling, fine as dust or so fat you can hear it land against the kitchen window. I like the tunnel of dry snow you drive through at night, the headlights blanking out a few yards ahead, and the feeling that you're driving into some abysmal vacuum. I like the ground-blizzards and the snow that slithers down the road ahead of you. What I like is the visual impairment snow brings with it, the way it obscures some things and defines others, like the wind."
                                                       ----Verlyn Klinkenborg from The Rural Life

Dinner Hour, December

by Eamon Grennan

In little dark-ringed frames of light the neighborhood is dining: heads nod to one another; candlelight catches on things---- threads of it snapped by knives and forks, the glass of water, the wine. No one

is not at home here except the man walking the block alone and peering in as if he were a visitor from beyond and wanted to feast his eyes again  on this picture of felicity, trying to read

the lips unrestrained and quick in talk, faces where light plays like a dog in water----haloes of hair, hands flying.

Fresh Starts

Snowy Night
by Mary Oliver

Last night, an owl
in the blue dark
an indeterminate number
of carefully shaped sounds into
the world, in which,
a quarter of a mile away, I happened
to be standing.
I couldn’t tell
which one it was –
the barred or the great-horned
ship of the air –
it was that distant. But, anyway,
aren’t there moments
that are better than knowing something,
and sweeter? Snow was falling,
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
than prettiness. I suppose
if this were someone else’s story
they would have insisted on knowing
whatever is knowable – would have hurried
over the fields
to name it – the owl, I mean.
But it’s mine, this poem of the night,
and I just stood there, listening and holding out
my hands to the soft glitter
falling through the air. I love this world,
but not for its answers.
And I wish good luck to the owl,
whatever its name –
and I wish great welcome to the snow,