Snowflakes - 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.
At first glance I was more than thrilled with the flakes on her head, but when I looked at the photo large I saw the gorgeous flake in the little pile of snow by her wing, I'm quite blown away by the detail. This warbler is so tame, she begs to be photographed and comes so close.
We braved yet another snowstorm to get our friends from Colorado to the Downeaster, the train from Boston to Portland Maine. It was easier than we thought, we made it safely, and returned home in one piece. Soon after we both went to our acupuncturist and feel immensely better after a lovely treatment. Tomorrow will be a hard day, traveling by car to Maine ourselves for B's Memorial Service. The Colorado gang will ride back with us, and we'll laugh as much as we'll cry. We'll go to the ocean on Sunday and find solace in sand and surf and mix our salty tears with the bitter winter wind.