Yesterday, I drove up to my cabin to work on a few
ongoing carpentry projects. Early in the
morning, snow began dropping against the mountains, through the tall green
pines and into the willow thickets.
Not letter snowflakes. Not merely word snowflakes.
Bigger collections of snow.
Whole soft sentences softly descended through the
forest of trees. Perfectly white couplets. Entire paragraphs floating down near my
cabin window. From inside my cabin I
watched English sonnets and free verse elegies scrolling from sky to earth—each
collecting with the previous layer of snow on the forest floor.
My woodstove steadily ticked with heat. And to Shakespeare the wandering mind:
Shall I compare thee to
a summer’s day?
Thou
art more lovely and more temperate…
--Mitchell
Hegman
No comments:
Post a Comment