The old man takes a nap too soon in the morning. His coffee cup grows cold. Outside the snow falls fast. He'll not go out today. Others must clear the way to the car and the shed. Open upon his lap lie the poems of Mr. Frost. Somehow his eyes get lost in the words and the snow, somehow they go backward against the words, upward among the flakes to the blankness of air, the busy abundance there. Should he take warning? Mr. Frost went off, they say, in bitterness and despair. The old man stirs and wakes, hearing the hungry birds, nuthatch, sparrow, and jay that clamor outside, unfed, and words stir from his past like this irritable sorrow of jay, nuthatch, and sparrow, wrath which no longer takes shape of sentence or song. He climbs the stairs to bed. The snow falls all day long.
Added: 1 Sep 2001 | Last Read: 24 Apr 2017 8:54 PM | Viewed: 5219 times
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