a mind of winter

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One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

"The Snow Man"
- by Wallace Stevens

NOTE: About Bishop, the barn cat in the photo, above. Several of you left comments that you are worried about her. She lives outdoors. She has a very, very thick coat of fur. She has an ever-heated cozy bed in the garage where she can go when she wishes. In the shot above, she is doing what she loves to do on a sunny winter day - squirm around in the snow so I will pet her. Believe me, she loves her outdoor life and romps out there all winter long. On the very coldest days, she stays in her warm bed perch in the garage.

I really feel very sorry, and even a little afraid, for my poor friends who live in the South of the U.S. and in parts of Europe who are unused to a cold winter and have had many days of freezing temperatures. I hope you will be feeling warmer in the next few days. If your house isn't warm, please layer on lots and lots of clothes, and wear a hat and gloves indoors if you have them. Weather.com says the next couple of days will see temperatures start to moderate for you in the South.

I don't know how long my love of winter will keep me in Michigan, if it will last until the end of my life, if the end of my life is another twenty or thirty years as my parents lived. Even if I bundle up and feel toasty, my fingers turn into icicles before the rest of me gets cold. I think they must have had minor frost bite one of those nights ice skating in Grand Ledge under the bridge. When I went out yesterday to shoot these photos, every bit of me was warm, especially my heart. Except for my fingers. Even with good warm gloves and sticking them in my pockets between shots, they froze. But regardless of my aching fingers, I will always have a mind of winter, in the sense of Wallace Stevens' poem.

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