Winter is in its throes, and I for one am waiting impatiently for Spring. I also have to beg forgiveness for not updating this page in such a long time. I think someone may have expected a February meeting, but the members decided the weather was too iffy to have meetings in the winter. I believe they will meet March 16, 11 a.m. in the Sohier Room of the Beverly Public Library.
I am no longer able to make most of the meetings because of other obligations. Therefore, don’t count on me for up-to-date information. I may try to post now and then, just for the heck of it.
So, as usual, I leave you with a poem that seems fitting. This one is a lovely example of Mary Oliver’s great legacy. She died in January and will no longer weave a new tapestry of words.
White-Eyes
In winter
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird
with its white eyes
shoves and pushes
among the branches.
Like any of us
he wants to go to sleep,
but he’s restless—
he has an idea,
and slowly it unfolds
from under his beating wings
as long as he stays awake.
But his big, round music, after all,
is too breathy to last.
So, it’s over.
In the pine-crown
he makes his nest,
he’s done all he can.
I don’t know the name of this bird,
I only imagine his glittering beak
tucked in a white wing
while the clouds—
which he has summoned
from the north—
which he has taught
to be mild, and silent—
thicken, and begin to fall
into the world below
like stars, or the feathers
of some unimaginable bird
that loves us,
that is asleep now, and silent—
that has turned itself
into snow.
Source: Poetry (Poetry Foundation, 2002)
North Shore Poets' Forum 