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: My old body that you buried with the mud and the timber
- 2: With life and so much loss, time has weighted us
- 3: Out in space, coast to coast
- 4: Like a sprig of yarrow caught in the dark
- 5: The moon still rises on everybody else
- 6: To the green field by the sea
- 7: Eating cereal, remembering the sky
- 8: We'll tell you of a blossom and of buds on every tree
- 9: Am I lost inside my mind?
- 10: And the biggest old rascal come tumbling down first
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