I feel OK about the new foot of snow because look what I had this morning: A sunup like this, all that warm buttery light just beginning to play on the face of the house across the street.
That and the crocuses, ready to push up through the snow once again and brandish their short pale-purple swords. ( I know they’re under there; I saw their tips just the other day.)
How can we NOT hope now, with the days at last longer than the nights?
Here is my favorite poem about faith in things unseen. The last line is just the best in my book. The poem is called Green Feathers and it’s by Reg Saner:
Five minutes till dawn and a moist breath of pine resin comes to me as from across a lake.
It smells of wet lumber, naked and fragrant.
In the early air we keep trying to catch sight of something lost up ahead,
A moment when the light seems to have seen us Exactly as we wish we were.
Like a heap of green feathers poised on the rim of a cliff?
Like a sure thing that hasn’t quite happened?
Like a marvelous idea that won’t work? Routinely amazing -
How moist tufts, half mud, keep supposing almost nothing is hopeless.
How the bluest potato grew eyes on faith the light would be there.
And it was.
All that faith! AND the lush image of moss!
Now to pull my boots back on and dig out more of these sword-blades.