A Tidings of Magpies

Fairbanks Under the Solstice by  John Haines Slowly, without sun, the day sinks toward the close of December. It is minus sixty degrees. Over the sleeping houses a dense fog rises—smoke from banked fires, and the snowy breath of an abyss through which the cold town is perceptibly falling. As if Death were a voice made visible, with the power of illumination... Now, in the white shadow of those streets, ghostly newsboys make their rounds, delivering to the homes of those who have died of the frost word of the resurrection of Silence. Honey-Haired Girl has moved to Alaska. The Land of the Midnight Sun. The Last Frontier. Hubby was up there for about two weeks to get her settled. I was just up there for Thanksgiving. She's doing well; thank you for asking. I believe the lowest temperatures were hovering at -18, and the sun is up for about 5 hrs. And, by "up," I mean it drifts along the horizon. It's dark by 4 pm. The roads are essentiall...

By Frances Cornford The spirits of children are remote and wise, They must go free Like fishes in the sea Or starlings in the skies, Whilst you remain The shore where casually they come again. But when there falls the stalking shade of fear, You must be suddenly near, You, the unstable, must become a tree In whose unending heights of flowering green Hangs every fruit that grows, with silver bells; Where heart-distracting magic birds are seen And all the things a fairy-story tells; Though still you should possess Roots that go deep in ordinary earth, And strong consoling bark To love and to caress. Last, when at dark Safe on the pillow lies an up-gazing head And drinking holy eyes Are fixed on you, When, from behind them, questions come to birth Insistently, On all the things that you have ever said Of suns and snakes and parallelograms and flies, And whether these are true, Then for a while you'll need to be no more That sheltering shore Or le...