Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Distance Makes the Heart Grow Weak


There are bleak, sunless days, that I drift so far away from my family throughout its course—loops around 270 are dizzying at worst and mesmerizing at best. My well-healed shoes get stuck in the work muck that covers hell’s belly like a thick, wet wool blanket. Stuck in mire. I can’t feel my daughter just across the tracks…where is she? Would I feel it if she wasn’t there?

Yet another cheery blog entry.

Now, for my favorite poem—well, one of them.


The Snow Man by Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.


That is all. 

Wait, eventually, all this dreariness will go away. I pinky-promise.  

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