Being inspired of the snow outside I found a winter motive along the mill river.
If snow melts down to water, does it still remember being snow?
Jennifer McMahon, The Winter People
A walk in The Danish Switzerland.
A nick name for the hilly woods in Ravnholm.
“Snow was falling,
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently?
And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, “Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.”
Old trees are like living cairns.
We can learn a lot from trees: they’re always grounded but never stop reaching heavenward.
Did I forget to warn you about
The physical well-being
The feeling of happiness
And of course
The urge for repetition
Even when it rains like today.
When the buzzard flies low over my head.
When a city person sits on the river bank in the pouring rain with his briefcase under the umbrella.
When a flock of starlings are exercising over the meadow.
When a pair of swans are wearing goggles. They certainly have their heads under water.
When the blackbird sits in the hedge humming spring songs in the middle of January.
Didn’t I warn you about being addicted to nature?
You’ll wait a long, long time for anything much
To happen in heaven beyond the floats of cloud
And the Northern Lights that run like tingling nerves.
The sun and moon get crossed, but they never touch,
Nor strike out fire from each other nor crash out loud.
The planets seem to interfere in their curves
But nothing ever happens, no harm is done.
We may as well go patiently on with our life,
And look elsewhere than to stars and moon and sun
For the shocks and changes we need to keep us sane.
It is true the longest drought will end in rain,
The longest peace in China will end in strife.
Still it wouldn’t reward the watcher to stay awake
In hopes of seeing the calm of heaven break
On his particular time and personal sight.
That calm seems certainly safe to last to-night.
Robert Frost – West-Running Brook, 1928