‘Cause there is no new frontier…
We have got to make it here!
You call some place paradise…
kiss it goodbye.’
broken bits of a song…
every time I’ve heard it sung…
there is no admittance for my wrongs.
even in the midst of a rural confession
good time notions are interrupted by the footprints I have left on the ground
I am ignorant in the dirt… of any lesson
“It’s so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.” – Steinbeck
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind’s masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn;
Fills up the famer’s lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer’s sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
Spruce and pine.
What a victorious state of mind?
There is only an pardon from the gods.
A single cell producing an immediate choice.
Nonetheless, the basking beauty of the land holds the prevailing voice.
When the sun is out…
Still no refuge from a terminal chilled breeze
A sway to the winds.
A brave dance to begin.
Again and again, only a reprieve from the trees.