Sunday, January 2, 2011

New Years Day

The Song New Years Day by U2 has been going through my head all day. I think it has something to do with this blanket of apocalyptic snow that has dropped on us this week.  A typical snow crystal weighs roughly one millionth of a gram. This means a cubic foot of snow can contain roughly one billion crystals.  So in my yard alone,  there are roughly 150 trillion snowflakes that have decided to remain in individual crystals that you can sift through your fingers as they fly delicately from your gloved fingers back down to rest.  It is unreal and very quiet.  

All is quiet on New Year's Day.
A world in white gets underway.
I want to be with you, be with you night and day.
Nothing changes on New Year's Day.
On New Year's Day.

I... I will begin again
I... I will begin again.

 I hope it is really snow and not some strange alien nuclear  interplanetary downpour because Emmy has eaten at least 5 billion crystals. 

And since I have Been on another Ralph Waldo Kick, here is another poem that has come to mind
this New Years Day. 

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.


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