XXXIX

Don March 24th, 2009

XXXIX Wordsworthrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.”  I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.” 

            There were no mountains near Chicago, but there was plenty of snow—on rare days enough even to overcome the snowplows of a very prepared Northern city and lock it down like a mere inch or two can do to us in the South.  So the mountains of my Southern memory asked to be added to the observations of my Northern experience, and this poem was the result.

 SNOW(December, 1973) 

See how the snow-fall, the silver shadow

Lies like a blanket upon the low land,

Marches in waves through the fields and the meadows,

Falls soft in the forest where tree-folk stand.

Molded in strange shapes it clings to high mountains,

Twisted and tortured and carved by the wind.

Piled high, it silently smothers the city,

And a rest from the meaningless hurry of men

(Who, knowing not whither nor why they must go,  

Spend all their time running, first to, and then fro)

Is the present of peace we receive from the snow.

Donald T. Williams, PhD

 

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