Winter rolls on, careless,
comfortable in its own ways. We take our hits - the nip of cold, the trudge of snow, the slash of ice.
Frost on the windshield. Drift of the pick-ups exhaust, heading north rapidly. A haze above, a blanket of white on the earth: I'm here between.
Snow still hangs on the trees, or now there is hoarfrost. The trees are dirty brushes.
A range of blue clouds. A rosy haze in the east. My cold fingers this morning. A world set to snap.
At the south edge of Ripon, a crow cuts the sky; the sky does not bleed this cold morning.
one could easily take this
for this morning
here in my neck of the woods, Tom
hard not to envy
the hibernating bear
except I wouldn't want to miss
the enormous exquisite beauty
of winter
this too is suffering
for the art of it
Posted by: suzanne | January 26, 2005 at 05:34 AM
Suzanne - I think that's a notion fairly prevalent here in the middlewest, too - that you have to suffer for art; that if it doesn't hurt, it's probably not worth much.... I suppose we look kinda silly to some people, huh?
Posted by: Tom Montag | February 03, 2005 at 09:07 PM