“ . . . The light moved slowly over the frozen field,

Over the dry seed-crowns,

The beautiful surviving bones

Swinging in the wind.

Light traveled over the wide field;

Stayed.

The weeds stopped swinging.

The mind moved, not alone,

Through the clear air, in the silence.

Was it light?

Was it light within?

Was it light within light?

Stillness becoming alive,

Yet still?

A lively understandable spirit

Once entertained you.

It will come again.

Be still.

Wait.”

Excerpt from Theodore Roethke, “It Was Beginning Winter”

This is how it has to be in January. Mist blurring the evergreens. Rain blackening sticks, circles and circles and circles, all sizes of drops plink on the river-top. Raw hands, no gloves, wet head, boots sink, I think it’s a morning of acceptance, January. For the red willow sticks, rain slicked at the meadow’s edge and standing straight as the river slims past, for this I am grateful. The mood is meditative, a slow and pensive meander. The milkweed is sodden, unlovely. Bittersweet berries drip from the brambles. Charlie is wholesome company in the rain, he doesn’t mind. When we return, he runs toward me, for the beach towel, he is rubbed and giddy. After we’re dry, we’re both dry, out the window the light shifts, some thick clouds move aside, let the sun faintly unshadow the meadow grass. Wind gusts shake the trees by the house and the fire smokes into the room. One daughter, and the other, calls to say goodbye. One son stands near me in rooms telling me all his hopes and happiness and the hard work of his plans.