Too much has already been written about how long, cold, snowy, and icy this winter has been. I get it. But, there are still days, like this week Monday, when I’m working at my computer and look out the window—not daydreaming but thoughtfully reflecting—only to be stunned by the beauty of a sunny Rochester winter’s day. The clean bright of the high sun bleaching the snow an impossible white. Or, on a day like last week Tuesday, when on the way back from Albany, I realized I was driving into a black and white photo: the snow mist, the bare trees, the grey sky had removed all color from the scene. Ansel Adams has nothing on the winterscape of upstate.
So, it is in this spirit that I share Mary Oliver’s gorgeous poem “White-Eyes.” It captures the contradictory nature of winter’s sharp, brittle, glittering, muffled beauty better than almost any other I know.
White Eyes by Mary Oliver
In winter
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird
with its white eyes
shoves and pushes
among the branches.
Like any of us
he wants to go to sleep,
but he's restless—
he has an idea,
and slowly it unfolds
from under his beating wings
as long as he stays awake.
But his big, round music, after all,
is too breathy to last.
So, it's over.
In the pine-crown
he makes his nest,
he's done all he can.
I don't know the name of this bird,
I only imagine his glittering beak
tucked in a white wing
while the clouds—
which he has summoned
from the north—
which he has taught
to be mild, and silent—
thicken, and begin to fall
into the world below
like stars, or the feathers
of some unimaginable bird
that loves us,
that is asleep now, and silent—
that has turned itself
into snow.
What is your favorite winter poem? Or, alternately, a poem that promises the renewal of spring? Please share it on the blog.
Anne M. Kress
President's Office
02/18/2015 |