Thinking of the sound of the wind
I’m not a winter person. I can deal with the dreary skies, filthy slush in the street, and the horrific chill knife of the air until about mid-February. While I don’t suffer from SAD like many people I know, I do feel that my solar cells are completely drained after my birthday and that I’m running on sheer willpower. I ache inside whenever I step into the frozen air and see yet another steel-grey sky peppered with buildings and sidewalks made ugly by aging snow. I feel the rot sink in.
Every morning I wake up hoping against futile hope that it will magically be spring when I look out the window. That there will be clear cerulean skies, the happy chirp of sparrows, the yellow-green of leaf buds and grass, the smell of ozone in the warm breeze. I’m told there’ll be at least four more weeks of this soul-crushing winter. Alas.
My heart is a heart of Spring.
“The Snow Man” by Wallace Stevens
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
I originally published this post in 2010, and it was removed from the archives in 2014. It’s been refreshed and reshared here for your enjoyment.