Wednesday, March 19, 2014

The Last Day of Winter 2014

It is the last day of winter and it's doing very wintery things outside my window.  These last few weeks, maybe a month I've been aching for Spring.  The last post was dedicated to it, excited about all I will plant which the deer and rabbits will undoubtedly eat.  I hated winter when I lived in the city, it was ugly all the time.  It's only been ugly here the last few weeks.  The snow has lost its fluffiness, now hard and icy.  Crispy brown at the edges like burnt toast as if the season has really burned out.  However right now it goes on, a damp chill is all through the house.  We had such a tough winter in New England that wood supplies have been exhausted - I've asked around and no one has any left.  Refusing to turn up the heat I pile on a few more lawyers of fleece, drink a lot of tea, bake things in the over and am oddly wistful for a season I've hated for so long.  As I ran around doing chores today a thought caught me by surprise, I found myself smiling thinking how nice it will be to see that first snowfall next year.  I'm not one to wish my life away rather I was thinking about how pretty it will be to see it if, God willing, the universe let's me enjoy another round of seasons.  Winter was hard this year in other ways...I lost my sister.  She will not be able to enjoy Spring this year and she was born in the Spring. I can't help but hope she will be enjoying it in ways we can't imagine.
So tonight Winter has one last say but in New England I know it won't really be the last storm, there could be many more like it before the real end.  After all we mark the seasons by calendar but the seasons could give a damn about our system.  In honor of the  last day of winter here's some photos I took and a poem by Emily Dickinson.  I look forward to Spring, Summer, Fall and the first snows of many winters.


Emily Dickinson
It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.

It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain, —
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.
It reaches to the fence,
It wraps it, rail by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces;
It flings a crystal veil

On stump and stack and stem, —
The summer's empty room,
Acres of seams where harvests were,
Recordless, but for them.
It ruffles wrists of posts,
As ankles of a queen, —
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.

Good night, au revoir Winter...

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