By P.K. Page
The wax has melted
but the dream of flight
I, Icarus, though grounded
in my flesh
have one bright section in me
where a bird
night after starry night
while I'm asleep
unfolds its phantom wings
The grand dame of Canadian letters, award-winning poet Page, died Thursday at her home in Canada at age 93.
Friday after lunch I am going to Boston -- well, we're staying overnight near Hartford, then driving into Boston after breakfast Saturday -- and there was a huge accident that closed the nearest highway for the morning and a major road for the entire day, so I stayed home, bought the Louvre and a Renaissance Faire for my Superpoke penguin, updated software, copied files onto my portable hard drive, and wrote a review of Next Gen's "Realm of Fear". I feel like I should have gotten a great deal more done, but there you have it.
One of the treehouses at Longwood Gardens, decorated for the winter season.
The fountains were turned off when we visited as well...
...though the cold did not deter the Canada geese that apparently live there year-round.
Though Longwood is probably better known for its holiday lights after dark, many trees were decorated for daytime viewing as well.
After dark, the lights of the Pierce du Pont House illuminated the ornamented trees.
We went to the after-dark ice skating show, where the rink and bushes around it were illuminated.
And there were cookies...
...and carolers performing for a Brandywine Christmas.
The kids came home talking about Haiti and their upcoming exams -- they both have big math tests tomorrow, plus Daniel has his history midterm, meaning he talked nonstop through dinner about the things he was studying even though the teacher showed them a video about the plight of wolves in Yellowstone in lieu of a review session -- and Adam had to explain to some of his friends where Hispaniola is, which makes me fear for the teaching of geography in public schools, not to mention the teaching of current events. I had intelligent things to say, too, but I've been totally distracted by Jon Stewart's hypothesis about why Glenn Beck couldn't interview Sarah Palin in the lap of Lincoln, and I want to fall asleep limp from laughter rather than just limp.