Wherein Winter Arrives

After my brief jaunt this morning during which I: got my flu shot (H1N1, dead variety; thanks Mom!), tried to get money from my regular ATM which wouldn’t scan my card, went inside and got money; apparently left my card; card found by next customer, turned in, shredded, new card ordered, um thanks; got a nice breakfast while all that was happening; found out I’d be leading the card-free life for a bit; I then came home no longer in the mood to grocery or other shop.

Once here I went with the plan of tucking away all the old shutters into a back building. Most are in good shape except for paint.

While I ferried the shutters, two by two from where the painter had left them to where they’ll be a little safer, I heard a noise. Unmistakable really. Looked up just in time to see an equally unmistakable small object go past my face. Yes folks! Winter has officially arrrived as evidenced by snow.

In honor of that unmistakable sound, I present to you a familiar poem:

The Onset

Always the same, when on a fated night
At last the gathered snow lets down as white
As may be in dark woods, and with a song
It shall not make again all winter long
Of hissing on the yet uncovered ground,
I almost stumble looking up and round,
As one who overtaken by the end
Gives up his errand, and lets death descend
Upon him where he is, with nothing done
To evil, no important triumph won,
More than if life had never been begun.

Yet all the precedent is on my side:
I know that winter death has never tried
The earth but it has failed: the snow may heap
In long storms an undrifted four feet deep
As measured against maple, birch, and oak,
It cannot check the peeper’s silver croak;
And I shall see the snow all go down hill
In water of a slender April rill
That flashes tail through last year’s withered brake
And dead weeds, like a disappearing snake.
Nothing will be left white but here a birch,
And there a clump of houses with a church.

Robert Frost