Happy New Year
Up here in Michigan, where I'm spending the holidays, the skies are gray. The skies tend to be gray in Michigan in the winter, which is why I moved to North Carolina. In 1980, which was the last winter I lived here, the temperature never got above 17 for the entire month of January, and from Christmas to Valentines Day the sun never shone.
But there can be beauty in the gray of winter, especially on the river. I found the shores at Lake Erie Metropark to be especially lovely. I give you this picture, and my favorite William Stafford poem, as a gift for the new year.
Ask Me
Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done is my life. Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt: ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.
I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.
But there can be beauty in the gray of winter, especially on the river. I found the shores at Lake Erie Metropark to be especially lovely. I give you this picture, and my favorite William Stafford poem, as a gift for the new year.
Ask Me
Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done is my life. Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt: ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.
I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.