By Alfred Kreymborg
When trees have lost remembrance of the leaves
that spring bequeaths to summer, autumn weaves
and loosens mournfully — this dirge, to whom
does it belong — who treads the hidden loom?
When peaks are overwhelmed with snow and ice,
and clouds with crepe bedeck and shroud the skies —
nor any sun or moon or star, it seems,
can wedge a path of light through such black dreams —
All motion cold, and dead all traces thereof:
What sudden shock below, or spark above,
starts torrents raging down till rivers surge —
that aid the first small crocus to emerge?
The earth will turn and spin and fairly soar,
that couldn’t move a tortoise-foot before —
and planets permeate the atmosphere
till misery depart and mystery clear! —
And yet, so insignificant a hearse? —
who gave it the endurance so to brave
such elements? — shove winter down a grave? —
and then lead on again the universe?
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It was nearly 60 degrees on Tuesday so of course I took a long walk in the park! There are crocuses all over the sunny hillside, snowdrops around the train station, and daffodil shoots coming up all over the place, though I've only seen a few actual flowers. Maddy is on her way to California -- a friend's parents got her tickets for the friend's birthday -- and she had work-related meetings in the afternoon, so I will not see her for a week.
The Flash and Black Lightning were back, and the former wasn't even too bad though I'm so tired of the DeVoe storyline (I keep wanting to write DeVos, like the Secretary of "Education"), but the latter is the best thing on network TV now and its women absolutely rock. And we're finally up to the final season of Bones! Before February ends, here are a few more photos from the Year of the Dog celebrations in Gaithersburg with the governor:
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