Frigid, but the days are getting longer.
They fly by like the pages
of a calendar in an old movie—
a likeness to a likeness.
Going outside, you brace yourself for cold.
But by the time you’re used to it enough
to stand up straight, unclasp your arms,
raise your head and face into the wind,
you face another weather. So with this:
I drank your diagnosis, took it in.
There is no other way to move but onward.
Not that winter’s over yet; and not
that spring is imminent. But change is constant.
What is there to prepare for?
Soon I’ll stop bundling up in layers of wool
each time I venture out.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 29 Number 2, on page 28
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