Category Archives: Weather
Winter is not my favorite season. The short days, the dip in temperatures and most of all the lack of sunlight gets to me. Nature begins its nap in early December not to awaken until the spring thaw comes. As I look out of the window, I see that the oaks and the maples have shed their leaves revealing the stark beauty of the branches underneath. Without the leaves to obstruct the view, I can see the distant mountains that surround me. The grass is still green in patches and there is no snow yet and there are some remnants of withered brown leaves still left on trees.
Its snowing yet again this weekend, I can has spring?
The first day of spring and we have fresh snow on the ground, this winter is turning into a long and endless one. Happy first day of spring, happy new year aka Gudi Padwa and above all happy Caturday.
Not a chance that I am going to be climbing any mountains anytime soon. Do you have any special plans to celebrate the arrival of spring? As for me, I will celebrate spring, when all the the snow has gone, until such a time, I will be with this kitteh.
Whoever decided that the coldest month of the year in the northern hemisphere would be a great time for new beginnings? After the short spell of warm weather (>30 degrees F) we are back in the icebox again, with the temperatures at night and early mornings in the teens and single digits. On the bright side, it was sunny this morning. Why not begin the new year at the start of spring, after all that’s the time when nature renews itself. New year’s resolutions would stand a much better chance that way.
Not that anyone else cares, one of my bloggy resolutions for this year is to blog more. Last year especially in the latter half of the year, blogging had been sporadic, since other shiny things were vying for my attention. All said and done, it is hard work being a kitteh of many worlds.
Robert Frost is the quintessential New England poet, his poems evoke the landscape of northern New England with its farmland and its woods. The ever changing seasons and especially the long harsh winters provide a rich tapestry to of many of his poems. From The Birches,
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
When icicles melt due to the sun’s direct heat they do indeed sound like breaking glass when they fall.
Dirty and grimy old snow, reminds Frost of a wet newspaper with its newsprint smudged due to rain. From a Patch of Old Snow,
There’s a patch of old snow in a corner
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.
It is speckled with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I’ve forgotten —
If I ever read it.
To me, the first stanza of My November Guest, evokes the dreaded SAD that many of us who live in the northern climes endure, when the days get shorter and the nights longer and all the leaves are gone but the snow is still not here.
My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise
Living in Northern New England definitely gives one a better appreciation of Frost’s poetry. Although I must say, that I was a Frost fan even when I lived nowhere near the North of Boston.