#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
Wolf Moon Rising in Ice Tree
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm. . .~ Excerpt from “The Snow Storm,” Ralph Waldo Emerson
A short walk to the river, sensing the storm coming, the big blizzard. A slight moistness in the air and the gray sky. The river is frozen and the ice is enticing. I venture along the edge taking pictures, I don’t go anywhere near the middle. It’s glass, not too slippery, it’s perfection. Except eventually I fall in. I’m okay, I’m only on the edge, and only up to my knees. I pull myself ashore with the dry grass. Suzi and Charlie cheer me along. I am very near home and head there quickly in my wet boots and pants. I remember the time when we lived on Brush Hill across the street from the woodland skating pond and the day my big brother knocked on my door after falling in up to his chest––too eager to skate on unfrozen ice, and I dried his clothes in the dryer and warmed him up. I change into my bathing suit and head for the pool. A good swim. Think about what my poem needs. I know what I need to do is sit down and see the words on the paper, thinking this out in my head won’t work. When I get home I have an hour to work on it. And, once the poem is there in front of me I see exactly what it needs, and it’s not complicated. Move a stanza. A few small tweaks. I’m pleased with the result. Off to a casual lunch with my dear friend. The sense all day of the storm, the storm. Everyone is talking about the storm, the potential “bomb cyclone,” and staggering amounts. Frank says tonight, what if we lose power? We have no fireplace. Hmmmm. We’ve always kept warm and comfy during short outages with our fireplace. Hotel, I say. Ha! If we could get to one! The snowed in weekend begins. . .
