Bitter cold is not cool

 Sometime, recently I believe, someone snuck a bookstore into Center City, Twinflower Books. We’ll plan on stopping by and taking a peek one day soon. Several years ago there was a bookstore in Lindstrom that’s been gone for some time. I never could figure out how they expected to stay in business, open weekdays from 9 to 5 as I remember, in a community with a large pre-pandemic contingent of commuters to “The  Cities.”

The folks at Franconia sculpture had a book club years ago. Among other things, it made evident that, even within one county, travel distances could be too long to make in person meetings effective, especially during the winter season. But, it was fun while it lasted.

it was colder 4 years ago

Photo by J. Harrington

We’ve almost made it through January. The next week may be the toughest one of the winter. The Midwest Regional Climate Center has the current [and projected] Twin Cities winter rated at severe. I’m not only not going to argue, I feel validated about all the grumping I’ve been doing, although I don’t think their index includes percent cloud cover.

We’ll get a different perspective this coming Thursday when we watch to see if Phil sees his shadow. Later, as the snow eventually melts, the back yard gopher mounds left by Phil’s nephew, will no doubt  reappear as a topic about which I grump and mutter. Stay tuned.

On this day, in 1939, William Butler Yeats, a magnificent poet, died. Today’s poems is in his memory and honor, and to remind us neither winter nor youth  lasts forever.

The Song of Wandering Aengus

By William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

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