My mother has gifted me with so many things. Most of the material things are or will soon be forgotten. Although the two large, old crockery bowls that came from her mother to her to me will always be treasured reminders. But the intangible gifts to my spirit and soul sweeten my life daily
So it was today when I stepped out the door early. Spring tapped me lightly on the shoulder as it whispered by in a thawing wind.
A thawing wind. . .
Yes, that’s what it is. Just barely spring but still mostly winter. But still. . .a thawing wind.
My mother gave me a love, a joy, an amazement in words and the way they transform from page to thought to emotion and, sometimes, to action. And she was insistent, even in my teenage cynicism, to make me pause and listen to this poem or that nugget of truth or the beauty of a line of Shakespeare. So it is now that she can send me the line, “O hushed October morning mild. . .” and I know exactly what she means. Or she might suggest that “perhaps today would be a good day to read ‘Ditch Burning.'” Or, in the telling of her encounter with a snake, she states, “It was ‘zero at the bone.'” I would smile and nod knowing well that feeling.
Today, then, when I came back inside and refilled my coffee cup, I went in search of one of my copies of Robert Frost. I like my Poetry for Young People, Robert Frost version with its beautiful watercolors by Henri Sorensen. I knew exactly the poem for this day. And then, of course, I settled in with Seth, my youngest, by my side. Though he’s entered teen-dom, he’s tolerant and even appreciative of the poetic forays he’s forced to travel with me.
And so, with a contented sigh. . .
TO A THAWING WIND by Robert Frost
Come with rain, O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
Make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But what’re you do tonight,
Bathe my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit’s crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o’er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.
Thanks, Mom. . .