The days are good around here. But at a certain hour each night, unrest has been setting in. I think winter turns my thoughts inwards more. The snow dampens the sound from outside, the early darkness stills the streets. And I find myself torn between falling in with the rhythm of the season and turning on all the lights, turning up the music and making a holy racket to fight it off.
But January is too big to fight off and so I've just been trying a way to settle down into myself and be comfortable with that, to roll with the little bursts of energy and the waves of still sleepiness. And I think this poem by Mark Strand is perfect right now.
Lines for Winter
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon's gaze in the valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.