I’m generally not a fan of rhyming poetry. Maybe I’m simply lazy and the work to count out meter and locate rhyme is more than my shrinking brain can handle. (I’ve had brain surgery, you know!) I’m a free bird kinda gal, but my admiration for the rhymers in our ranks is … well, just picture me bowing and scraping and drooling on your feet. I guess brain tumors remove the rhyme, the meter, and leave one with a ridiculous simplicity of word and thought, as well as a wild sense of humility to go with these scraped-up knees.
Regardless its “I’m not worthy” rhyme, this poem by Robert Frost is more than lovely and, perhaps, a prayer on the lips of many in our country as they wait for spring to release them from the bondage of their icy cold. For the final episode in my winter weather series, I give you ……..
To the Thawing Wind
by Robert Frost
Come with rain. O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate’er you do tonight,
bathe my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit’s crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o’er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.