[Whales will return, but this can’t wait.]
This morning we woke up to a new world: I am not a poet, but luckily the 19th century Englishman John Clare said it all in the poem at the end of this post.*
The beaver pond had refrozen just enough to collect shadows as the sun rose:
The cottage is waiting for guests..
And when I returned, I baked my first ever loaf of sourdough (yeast is hard to get now):
* The Winter’s Spring, by John Clare
The winter comes; I walk alone,
I want no bird to sing;
To those who keep their hearts their own
The winter is the spring.
No flowers to please–no bees to hum–
The coming spring’s already come.
I never want the Christmas rose
To come before its time;
The seasons, each as God bestows,
Are simple and sublime.
I love to see the snowstorm hing;
‘Tis but the winter garb of spring.
I never want the grass to bloom:
The snowstorm’s best in white.
I love to see the tempest come
And love its piercing light.
The dazzled eyes that love to cling
O’er snow-white meadows sees the spring.
I love the snow, the crumpling snow
That hangs on everything,
It covers everything below
Like white dove’s brooding wing,
A landscape to the aching sight,
A vast expanse of dazzling light.
It is the foliage of the woods
That winters bring–the dress,
White Easter of the year in bud,
That makes the winter Spring.
The frost and snow his posies bring,
Nature’s white spurts of the spring.