By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.
I spent all of Monday morning on the phone, text, and Messenger -- I have several friends having assorted health and family crises and after the weekend I wanted to know how they were doing. Is it January? It seems like so many crises always hit in January, whether it's new year money issues or winter colds and flu. So I was behind on everything by lunchtime, when I went to walk in the park to clear my head. I couldn't find any snowdrops but there were a few winter jasmine blossoms in my neighborhood, which made me feel better.
We discovered that I had a birthday coupon for California Pizza Kitchen that never got used in December and expires on the 31st, so since I have plans the next two evenings, we decided to go eat there. Maddy had finished working for the day so she joined us for dinner and we talked to a bunch of her work friends, including a classmate of Adam's. Later we watched Supergirl (I really love Lillian Luthor, though I also love all the female bonding) and caught up on Blindspot (really good this season). From Longwood Gardens yesterday, color!