A touch of Frost for a frosty morning

DUST OF SNOW by Robert Frost from New Hampshire (Henry Holt)

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued

A dust of snow is about all we've had this winter in the DC area, a baker's dozen of days with enough snow to make it look like the grass has been covered with powdered sugar.  This morning's snow/sleet mix has left the landscape glazed like a pound cake.  But even that drizzle of snow was enough to lift my spirits.

I'm in the minority that loves snow.  I strain to catch a glimpse of the first flakes of the winter once the autumn wind turns cold and damp.   That first discernible snow always seems to me like the universe is throwing a party, tossing about handfuls of white confetti and inviting me to join in the celebration. 

Last week in the Celtic spirituality class at the Cathedral that I was co-teaching with the wise and wonderful Sue Mosher, we wrapped the series with a session on celebrating the seasons.  During the group discussion time, the idea of harbingers came up-- those signs that let us know that the season is about to turn.   

I'm good at noticing the harbingers.  I keep an eye out for the crocuses and daffodils stretching their stalks up through the earth after their winter slumber.  I scan the summer twilight for the first flash of lightning bugs and gaze at the October trees waiting for them to spark and catch fire.  And of course, there's the snow.

What I'm not so good at, is appreciating a season when I'm in the thick of it.  And that's when I need reminders of what is rather than harbingers of what's to come.  I need a dusting of snow to help me recapture those feelings of delight, joy, gratitude that I feel when I spy the first snowflakes.  I need to be reminded that today and every day there's something to celebrate.








 

Reaper (and Why I Love Billy Collins)

REAPER
by Billy Collins from The Trouble with Poetry (Random House)

As I drove north along a country road
on a bright spring morning
I caught the look of a man on the roadside
who was carrying an enormous scythe on his shoulder.

He was not wearing a long black cloak
with a hood to conceal his skull-
rather a torn white tee-shirt
and a pair of loose khaki trousers.

But still, as I flew past him,
he turned and met my glance
as if I had an appointment in Samarra,
not just the usual lunch at the Raccoon Lodge.

There was no sign I could give him
in that instant-no casual wave,
or thumbs-up, no two-fingered V
that would ease the jolt of fear

whose voltage ran from the ankles
to my scalp-just the glimpse,
the split-second lock of the pupils
like catching the eye of a stranger on a passing train.

And there was nothing to do
but keep driving, turn off the radio,
and notice how white the houses were,
how red the barns, and green the sloping fields.

Since some people may still be rubbing away a lingering smudge of ashes from their foreheads this morning, I decided to indulge in a memento mori poem.  So of course, I turned to the master of this theme-- Billy Collins.   I love Billy Collins.  I love Billy Collins for many reasons.  I love the way he is amused by words and phrases, and turns that delight into verse that, in turn, delights me.  I love the way he finds poetry in the ordinary bits and pieces of life-- an old school photo, the cracks in a ceiling, a vase of white tulips, patterns in the grain of wood or woof of carpet.  And I also love the way he writes about death.  A lot.  If you're looking for a poem about remembering mortality, Billy Collins is your go to guy.  I finally chose The Reaper because I think it encapsulates what I love about his poetry:  he notices things.  And in turn, he reminds me that my time to be awake, truly awake, in this world is finite, and I'd better start noticing things now.   

So onto the questions. . . .
     Who (or what) helps you notice things?
     What are you noticing today?