I live in southern New England, below the Merritt Parkway.
I could even say I live at the shore with a view of the whole United States to my right… and a view of the rest
of the globe over the boundless ocean at the edge of my
left shoulder… to Nantucket and beyond.
Here, we had a very early sudden snow at the end of October, with occasional ‘weather’ since. Right now, we’re
in a lull of bare trees, chill winds, dark afternoons.
Not so the rest of New England! Many inches of snow, even the bears in the backyards, looking for forage.
Now, this morning, I have chosen a poem perhaps born of
this time of year, and it’s set me thinking:
L A N D S C A P E
Isn’t it plain the sheets of moss, except that
they have no tongues, could lecture
all day if they wanted about
spiritual patience? Isn’t it clear
the black oaks along the path are standing
as though they were the most fragile of flowers?
Every morning I walk like this around
the pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart
ever close, I am as good as dead.
Every morning, so far, I’m alive. And now
the crows break off from the rest of the darkness
and burst up into the sky — as though
all night they had thought of what they would like
their lives to be, and imagined
their strong, thick wings.
from her book, Dream Work, 1986
Aha! It could be like that, couldn’t it?
I could imagine
what I would like my life to be, so strongly that it
turns out to be just like that.
It’s even quite probable that that’s exactly what’s
with love …