The snow and the twilight have turned the air as cloudy blue as seaglass, so that trees, telephone poles, houses with yellow-lit windows, fade off much more quickly into the dusk as into fog. I shoveled the front walk and the driveway twice in the same hour and they don't look it. Three days ago, I walked into Harvard Square under such warmth of the sun that I was carrying my jacket over my arm before I'd gotten ten feet from the subway, thinking that any day now I could sing "Wild Mountain Thyme." This ghost-blue storm is midwinter, not less than a week from spring. I baked apples for dessert; I'm translating Greek lyric. Right now, I can live with this.
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- 1: And they won't thank you, they don't make awards for that
- 2: But the soft and lovely silvers are now falling on my shoulder
- 3: What does it do when we're asleep?
- 4: Now where did you get that from, John le Carré?
- 5: Put your circuits in the sea
- 6: Sure as the morning light when frigid love and fallen doves take flight
- 7: No one who can stand staying landlocked for longer than a month at most
- 8: And in the end they might even thank me with a garden in my name
- 9: I'd marry her this minute if she only would agree
- 10: And me? Well, I'm just the narrator
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