#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

. . . The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss
Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,
Yet vanish not!--the wind is in the tree,
But they are silent;--still they roll along
Immeasurably distant; and the vault,
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,
Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
At length the Vision closes; and the mind,
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,
Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

~ Excerpt from “A Night-Piece,” by William Wordsworth

The ice is gone. It’s Sunday morning in the woods. My youngest walks with me for awhile. She will leave today, and it will feel like Christmas is over. She goes in sooner than I do, and I stay out to wander through the wetlands and find some pictures, which are there, but they don’t come easily. It’s quietly cold and very peaceful at the brook. Today, indoors, the clutter will have no chance against me––it’s a clean up and organize day. My youngest has asked me for help in tackling the room of mess she has been coming and going from. Now, it’s time to really pack for her new apartment, moving day this week, and it’s not becoming a guest room, she wants to keep calling in her room, but we clean and put away and recycle and pack and hours later, by the time we’re done, the room is now. . . well, a room that will always be hers, but does not really contain, except in the closet, her clothes to save and memorabilia and shoes. Lots and lots of shoes. We load her car and kiss her goodbye at the door. The house is orderly and the mountain of Christmas holiday preparation and experience and clean up has been climbed. I’m grateful for this unusual holiday. And I am aware of how lucky I am at this moment in the nightmare of Covid that is all-consuming for so many.