A Deep River Year
February 19, 2014

February is the shortest month in days, but it feels so long.   Everywhere the piles of frozen slush and snow have grown higher and higher, and people are weary of winter.   Perhaps it is because the days are  both cold and colorless, and because--if there are portents of Spring around us--they cannot yet be seen.   It will take a good melt, but then the little snowdrops will rise from the detritus of winter, and soon after the purple crocus will push into view, and it will be time to cut the pussy willows.

For now, we remember that this is winter's last hurrah.    And what a hurrah it has been.   Snowfall after snowfall, and icicles hanging from the eaves, and deep paths out to the birdfeeders, and treacherous walks where the snow has melted and frozen and melted and frozen again.  After last Saturday's snow, I grabbed a shovel and headed out to the driveway to clear the car.   I have warned Phyllis many times about the step near the corner of the barn which catches the drips from the corner of the roof--the "widow maker," I call it.   This time, I forgot.   My feet when flying out in front of me and as I saw the pattern of branches directly over my head, I felt the ensuing  crash happen in almost slow motion.   I remember thinking to myself, "This is not good.   This will not end well." 

It did not end well, though not as badly as it might have.   There were no broken bones, no blood.   In my fall, I landed on the back pocket of my jeans, right where I carry my cell phone.   As I lay on the ice, I fished out the cracked phone which was of no use to call for help, if I had needed to.    Only later, in the house, could I admire the large purple bruise spreading over my backside.    Yesterday it started snowing again.   I wait for pussy willows.

Ice

This crystal, bright-shining thing

diamond-hard, alive,
builds its beautiful prison
on stem and leaf,
glares hard from earth
that waits to soften , breathe,
wear some greener garment.
Long shards dangle from the edges
of our sheltered world,
say, "Beware,
you who step
into this bitter loveliness."
We are tempted by things
that sparkle, shimmer,
flash with radiant light.
But who would choose glitter over grace?
So we should be wary
of all cold and callous glory,
seek instead a tender way to be:
easily bruised, or broken,
yet alive,
a leaf in waiting,
a sign of Spring.

--Timothy Haut, February 19, 2014