"The Boy at the Window" - Richard Wilbur (1952)

This is another of my favorite poems. The stark imagery of the outdoors; as endured by the Snowman; juxtaposed against the warmth and love which the boy experiences indoors; breaks my heart each time I read it. And the sympathy of the snowman as he melts is truly amazing. Being born to die he has no fears at all, while the boy remains trapped, fearing the loss of the things which he thinks possesses; but which in reality possess him.

"The Boy at the Window" - Richard Wilbur

Seeing the snowman standing all alone

In dusk and cold is more than he can bear.

The small boy weeps to hear the wind prepare

A night of gnashings and enormous moan.

His tearful sight can hardly reach to where

The pale faced figure with bitumen eyes

Returns him such a godforsaken stare

As outcast Adam gave to Paradise.

The man of snow is, nonetheless, content

Having no wish to go inside and die.

Still, he is moved to see the youngster cry.

Though water is his element,

He melts enough to drop from one soft eye

A trickle of the purest rain, a tear

For the child at the bright pane surrounded by

Such warmth, such light, such love, and so much fear.

"...A Frosty Morning..."

This is what a "frosty morning" looks like in "Dixie". I always wondered why they sang about it down South. That is, until I came to live here. This is the time of year when you wake up to 29 degrees, with the frost showing each time you exhale, and then watch the landscape change to a radiant, springlike 65 degrees, or so. Even when it snows here it only stays long enough to be appreciated, like a Christmas card, and then, poof, it's gone "quicker than an ol' friend from Dogpatch." There aren't too many days like this, so you have to take them as they come. And mornings like this one make that so very easy to do.

Fall in My Yard

The elephant ears were 7 foot tall,
They stood to defy the arrival of fall.
But now they don’t seem so tall at all,
As they await the coming of winter.

The magnolia tree with its blossoms white,
Fading away with summer’s light.
Will be back next year, to my delight,
After the cold days of winter.

The little flowers that fill the bed,
the chill in the air is something they dread.
There’ll be something else comes spring in their stead,
After the passing of winter.

We are young, the cycle’s old,
This wandering from heat to cold.
Around a sun of shining gold
Into the grips of winter.

What is this loss I seem to feel,
When the sun begins to peel
The veneer of warmth which felt so real,
Laying us bare to winter?

This Should Be Illegal

Woke up this morning, looked at the thermometer and went back to bed. There oughta be a law....