Mar. 11, 2014  Walking Alone in Late Winter  by Jane Kenyon  How
long the winter has lasted—like a Mahler symphony, or an hour in
the dentist's chair. In the fields the grasses are matted and
gray, making me think of June, when hay and vetch burgeon in the
heat, and warm rain swells the globed buds of the peony.  Ice on
the pond breaks into huge planes. One sticks like a barge gone
awry at the neck of the bridge....The reeds and shrubby brush
along the shore gleam with ice that shatters when the breeze
moves them. From beyond the bog the sound of water rushing over
trees felled by the zealous beavers, who bring them crashing
down.... Sometimes it seems they do it just for fun.  Those days
of anger and remorse come back to me; you fidgeting with your
ring, sliding it off, then jabbing it on again.  The wind is
keen coming over the ice; it carries the sound of breaking
glass. And the sun, bright but not warm, has gone behind the
hill. Chill, or the fear of chill, sends me hurrying home.
"Walking Alone in Late