whose only utterance is melting snow

[musesfool]

I thought things would be quieter today since the frenetic hustle to get to and through the board meeting would be over, but apparently there's still pesky other work to be done. Sigh. I just keep reminding myself that after 6 more business days, I will be on vacation for a week and a day, and not have to get up with an alarm or drag myself into the office. I wish I could work from home once a week. That sounds like bliss to me.

Meanwhile, my true main accomplishment for the day is discovering I know how to spell Poughkeepsie without having to look it up. Go me.

Have a poem:

Hesitations

There is always waiting,
not for the usual arrivals
- the bus, the bell -
and not in the usual places
by the door or under a window,
but where the rapids' violent praise
grinds the river stones,
or steam from a sewer grate
ghosts the morning street.

I hesitate at my entrance, for its clatter,
its contagion, the odor of its meaning.
These equivocations are a kind of respect
for what was here before I came,
a hope to see what winter maples
snag in their surging limbs,
or hear the voice in light
whose only utterance is melting snow.

~Michael T. Young

***

This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/892191.html.
people have commented there.