Paul Christensen: The Old Year in my Hand
I am beginning to believe democracy survived a profound crisis, and is about to show that a flimsy idea proved itself as durable as the trunk of an ancient maple tree.
Paul Christensen: Timbrels in the Marsh
The sky is a stoic blue, hard as a marble, with little wimpy clouds that carry nothing more than a few regrets from a dying winter. We’re here, right on the precipice of a season.
Paul Christensen: When the Ice Won’t Melt
It’s one of those diamond-bright days of early winter, with the ground ringing like iron when you walk on it.
Paul Christensen: Snow Bound
The snow and the dark wind, the impassable wastes of one’s backyard, the icy draft that leaks in under the front door tell you you have no place to go. You must sit down and allow the slightly old-fashioned language of self to drift in.
Robert Frost: “Out, Out—”
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
Josephine Dickinson: 6018
At Hartford Connecticut a man steps out on the tarmac, one foot in front of the other, as the plane begins to move. Above Hartford a wooded hilly landscape, a … Continue reading
Paul Christensen: January’s Two Faces
Nothing can make the soul shiver more than to look upon those tree-covered slopes with their icy diamonds shimmering on their skin. They are there to remind you that your mortality means nothing to them. They stand for the severity of time, the rules of the universe that have nothing to do with our petty lives.
Paul Christensen: The First Snowfall
The first snow of winter here in central Vermont has now fallen. It came late this year, late by several months, according to the TV weather watchers. I’m glad it … Continue reading
