Poem for Saturday and McCrillis Flowers

Cold Poem
By Mary Oliver

Cold now.
Close to the edge. Almost
unbearable. Clouds
bunch up and boil down
from the north of the white bear.
This tree-splitting morning
I dream of his fat tracks,
the lifesaving suet.

I think of summer with its luminous fruit,
blossoms rounding to berries, leaves,
handfuls of grain.

Maybe what cold is, is the time
we measure the love we have always had, secretly,
for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love
for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe

that is what it means the beauty
of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.

In the season of snow,
in the immeasurable cold,
we grow cruel but honest; we keep
ourselves alive,
if we can, taking one after another
the necessary bodies of others, the many
crushed red flowers.

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Friday was very, very cold, so I was mostly a slacker who stayed indoors and sat in front of the computer doing a bunch of stuff with my space heater running, meaning I had cat supervisors on and under the table. We did briefly go to Cabin John Park so I could spin some Pokestops, and we had dinner with my parents. 

Cheryl and I watched Wakanda Forever together, though on Disney+ at our respective homes; I actually think I liked it better this time, though I don't have the same love for Namor's storyline as the Wakandans in whom I'm more invested, especially mourning T'Challa. Flowers from McCrillis Garden last weekend: