6:15:10 AM

Today the weather makes me cry, blinking into the blank white glare
of a sun smeared by ice and wind. 4 degrees, or maybe 5, with a
30-mile-an-hour wind that slaps me hard. A deep wind, a heavy
wind – a dull roar that wails as it comes nearer, inconsolable.
Picking at scabby brown patches of earth, dashing hopes against
frosted, frozen ground before it blows by, saying ‘wait no more.’

The Snow Man

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.

– Wallace Stevens