10 degrees out when I head to the post office. In a sort of collective ah, screw it to concerns about global warming, many of the cars around town simply keep running—some, no doubt, to keep drivers’ toes warmish, others simply to maintain juice running through the battery.
Home with a cold, my daughter spreads out her photos that arrived in the post office box this morning. Despite my ontological hesitations about linear time, she strings together her memories. When did we go to Burton Island? Prince Edward Island?
On the couch, drinking coffee beside the sleeping cats, I keep writing cheerful pieces about spring—paid work for a family magazine—encouraging folks to get out. I believe in these things, and I’m glad for the work. I’m particularly happy for this work on days when I need to be home, in my ratty jeans with soup bubbling on the stove.
But spring? Daffodils? Lying on the grass between the blueberry bushes?
Possible. But not all that probable.
Unless, of course, my kid is right, that time is linear, and we’re not trapped forever in this vortex of midwinter.
…..and though the questions
that have assailed us all day
remain — not a single
answer has been found –
walking out now
into the silence and the light
under the trees,
and through the fields,
feels like one.
— Mary Oliver
3 thoughts on “Postcard From the Edge of Snowland”
Please, what is the title of the poem by Mary Oliver, that this quote is from?
A friend emailed me this lovely Oliver poem. The title is “First Snow.”
Thanks. It’s beautiful.