Friday, January 8, 2010

wintry poetry



With the icy city rain slanting into the window, this seems an appropriate poem for the day.  However, tis cosy inside with opera playing on the stereo, a penny found, and an experimental frittata scenting the flat with garlic, mushrooms and basil.  Happy Friday!




You Are Happy

by Margaret Atwood

The water turns
a long way down over the raw stone,
ice crusts around it

We walk separately
along the hill to the open
beach, unused
picnic tables, wind
shoving the brown waves, erosion, gravel
rasping on gravel.

In the ditch a deer
carcass, no head. Bird
running across the glaring
road against the low pink sun.

When you are this
cold you can think about
nothing but the cold, the images

hitting into your eyes


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