To the Snow

To the canyon that came so close
to touching me, I was nothing.
What good was a truck gearing down
to go up to the snow?

Still, the walls of rock held themselves
at arm’s length to make room.
A narrow hall. That wallpaper,
lichens splattered on basalt …

a bedroom carved out around me.
Snow, where had you gone,
taking the road with you?
Where was the door?

The creek had something to say
on this, but not to me.
To the rocks the meltwater tumbled,
to the willows that reddened

at each wet word,
the radio crackled and spat.
And still Willie Nelson sang
in a whiny fuzz.

The pines strained under the weight
of all the dumb sad songs made one.
Love gone to seed,
love buried under snow—

where was a snowbird to feed?
A flock of juncos flung itself
like a lost scarf over the last weeds.
Mist coming down the mountain

to meet someone halfway—
I took off a glove. I lay down
and played angel. The snow held on,
a body of water that wouldn’t melt.

Snow, let go. It’s late,
You are cornmush. You are cold.
Let me cover you with this white sheet.
No one will know.

-Debora Gregor, 2000

So We'll Go No More a Roving

So, we'll go no more a roving
--So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
--And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
--And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
--And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
--And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
--By the light of the moon.

-Lord Byron, 1817

Sea Change

Spring and the come-back glow
shifts, blue-green and red-tinged blue,
light hits the undersea bed.
I could lose my footing
on this clay bank, taking my mind
from my step, going over and over
the last time we met. The sun
------------roaring in my head.

-Rhian Gallagher, 2012

Return

From the bedroom you can see
straight to the fringe of the woods
with a cross-staved gate to re–
enter childhood’s world:
------------------the pines
wait, dripping.
------------------Crumbling black–
berries, seized from a rack
of rusty leaves, maroon tents
of mushroom, pillars uprooting
with a dusty snap;
------------------as the bucket
fills, a bird strikes from the bushes
and the cleats of your rubber boot crush a yellow snail’s shell to a smear
on the grass
------------------(while the wind starts
the carrion smell of the dead fox
staked as warning).
------------------Seeing your former
self saunter up the garden path
afterwards, would you flinch,
acknowledging
------------------that sensuality,
that innocence?

-John Montague, 1966

Well, I'm off in the morning to Norway. Or--I'm off in the morning to Logan International, and in the evening to Norway by way of Iceland. Either way. It's a bit difficult to believe, really, which may be why I've been a bit lackadaisical about packing. I pulled up this post, from January 2009 (four years ago!), when I was also ruminating on what I needed for upwards of five months on another continent. No easy answers to that question--I still feel like it should be less. But then it's really important that I bring all these sweaters. 

Anyway. The real point is that soon I'll be driving down this street, past the falling down barn (pictured) and the other falling down barn (not pictured) and I won't be back 'til summer. Here we go again (what else is there to say, really? This is the third time this blog has seen me off to parts unknown. The feeling remains the same: a little bit bittersweet, a little bit hopeful, a little bit excited, a little bit 'what have I gotten myself into this time?'). 

Journey

Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass
And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind
Blow over me—I am so tired, so tired
Of passing pleasant places! All my life,
Following Care along the dusty road,
Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed;
Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand
Tugged ever, and I passed. All my life long
Over my shoulder have I looked at peace;
And now I fain would lie in this long grass
And close my eyes.
----Yet onward!
--------Cat birds call
Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk
Are guttural. Whip-poor-wills wake and cry,
Drawing the twilight close about their throats.
Only my heart makes answer. Eager vines
Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees
Pause in their dance and break the ring for me;
And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread
Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant,
Look back and beckon ere they disappear.
Only my heart, only my heart responds.
Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side
All through the dragging day,—sharp underfoot
And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs—
But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach,
And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling,
The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake,
Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road
A gateless garden, and an open path:
My feet to follow, and my heart to hold.

-Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1913