Winter's Blush

THE WINTER evening settles down. . .
Six o’clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days. . .
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
(Can you guess what this inspired?)

For the first time this year I went out to a frozen windshield. I stood in the cold watching my crystal breath, while I warmed the car. Work was dull, end of the semester and all, but the day was glorious. By noon it was pleasantly chilly (about 45 F). I have been enjoying the slow climb of winter. Many will find it crazy, but some of you will understand the purity of the cold. It draws memories of two hard, but rewarding years, in Michigan to mind. Sitting on the edge of an artic cold lake pushing poems to ice crisp pages. Winter, the death of the old and renewal ... I long for the cleansing glory of December. Eliot ... the wasteland of burnt out ends of smoky days . . . he might not have seen the glory of the ice ... but I do. Hail Winter ... you are come.