{"id":17595,"date":"2015-12-25T08:00:30","date_gmt":"2015-12-25T13:00:30","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=17595"},"modified":"2015-12-24T12:02:50","modified_gmt":"2015-12-24T17:02:50","slug":"winters-first-week","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2015\/12\/winters-first-week\/","title":{"rendered":"Winter’s First Week"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Cover:<\/a><\/p>\nA<\/span> bit of a changeup from the usual Friday routine here. Let’s start with a couple of things not from whiskey river<\/em> (because, well, why not)…<\/p>\n

\n\n<\/div>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Christmas Trees<\/strong>
\n(A Christmas Circular Letter<\/span>)<\/em><\/p>\n

The city had withdrawn into itself
\nAnd left at last the country to the country;
\nWhen between whirls of snow not come to lie
\nAnd whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
\nA stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
\nYet did in country fashion in that there
\nHe sat and waited till he drew us out
\nA-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
\nHe proved to be the city come again
\nTo look for something it had left behind
\nAnd could not do without and keep its Christmas.
\nHe asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
\nMy woods—the young fir balsams like a place
\nWhere houses all are churches and have spires.
\nI hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.
\nI doubt if I was tempted for a moment
\nTo sell them off their feet to go in cars
\nAnd leave the slope behind the house all bare,
\nWhere the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
\nI’d hate to have them know it if I was.
\nYet more I’d hate to hold my trees except
\nAs others hold theirs or refuse for them,
\nBeyond the time of profitable growth,
\nThe trial by market everything must come to.
\nI dallied so much with the thought of selling.
\nThen whether from mistaken courtesy
\nAnd fear of seeming short of speech, or whether
\nFrom hope of hearing good of what was mine, I said,
\n“There aren’t enough to be worth while.”
\n“I could soon tell how many they would cut,
\nYou let me look them over.”<\/p>\n

“You could look.<\/span>
\nBut don’t expect I’m going to let you have them.”
\nPasture they spring in, some in clumps too close
\nThat lop each other of boughs, but not a few
\nQuite solitary and having equal boughs
\nAll round and round. The latter he nodded “Yes” to,
\nOr paused to say beneath some lovelier one,
\nWith a buyer’s moderation, “That would do.”
\nI thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.
\nWe climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,
\nAnd came down on the north. He said, “A thousand.”<\/p>\n

“A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?”<\/p>\n

He felt some need of softening that to me:
\n“A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.”<\/p>\n

Then I was certain I had never meant
\nTo let him have them. Never show surprise!
\nBut thirty dollars seemed so small beside
\nThe extent of pasture I should strip, three cents
\n(For that was all they figured out apiece),
\nThree cents so small beside the dollar friends
\nI should be writing to within the hour
\nWould pay in cities for good trees like those,
\nRegular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools
\nCould hang enough on to pick off enough.
\nA thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!
\nWorth three cents more to give away than sell,
\nAs may be shown by a simple calculation.
\nToo bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.
\nI can’t help wishing I could send you one,
\nIn wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Robert Frost [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

December Notes<\/strong><\/p>\n

The backyard is one white sheet
\nWhere we read in the bird tracks<\/p>\n

The songs we hear. Delicate
\nSparrow, heavier cardinal,<\/p>\n

Filigree threads of chickadee.
\nAnd wing patterns where one flew<\/p>\n

Low, then up and away, gone
\nTo the woods but calling out<\/p>\n

Clearly its bright epigrams.
\nMore snow promised for tonight.<\/p>\n

The postal van is stalled
\nIn the road again, the mail<\/p>\n

Will be late and any good news
\nWill reach us by hand.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Nancy McCleery [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

And now, let’s give the last word to this week’s selections from whiskey river<\/em><\/a>:<\/p>\n

Winter Solstice<\/b><\/p>\n

A cold night crosses
\nour path
\nThe world appears<\/span>
\nvery large, very
\nround now \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 extending
\nfar as the moon does
\nIt is from<\/span>
\nthe moon this cold travels
\nIt is<\/span>
\nthe light of the moon that causes
\nthis night reflecting distance in its own
\nlight so coldly
\n(from one side of<\/span>
\nthe earth to the other)
\nIt is the length of this coldness<\/span>
\nIt is the long distance
\nbetween two points which are
\nnot in a line \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0now
\nnot a<\/span>
\nstraightness \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 (however
\nstraight) but a curve only,
\nsilver that is a rock reflecting
\nnot metal<\/span>
\nbut a rock accepting
\ndistance
\n(a scream in silence<\/span>
\nwhere between the two
\npoints what touches
\nis a curve around the world
\n(the dance unmoving).<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Hilda Morley [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Snowfall<\/strong><\/p>\n

Watching snow cover the ground, cover itself,
\ncover everything that is not you, you see
\nit is the downward drift of light
\nupon the sound of air sweeping away the air,
\nit is the fall of moments into moments, the burial
\nof sleep, the down of winter, the negative of night.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Mark Strand [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Early Winter, after Sappho<\/strong><\/p>\n

Some say the air of
\nearly winter moving through
\nwindows. For some, black ships<\/p>\n

coming towards the city
\nare the quietest sounds on earth.
\nBut I say it is with whomever one loves.<\/p>\n

And very easily proved:
\nwhen we are trying to think of
\nsomething to say to each other,<\/p>\n

each remembering back
\nwho said what, the ground
\nwe’ve already covered,<\/p>\n

you can hear all the money
\nlost earlier in the stock market,
\neven fresh water slipping
\ninto salt water.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Tung-Hui Hu [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

bit of a changeup from the usual Friday routine here. Let’s start with a couple of things not from whiskey river (because, well, why not)… …and: Christmas Trees (A Christmas Circular Letter) The city had withdrawn into itself And left at last the country to the country; When between whirls of snow not come to […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[183,247,1393,74,5,251],"tags":[27,684,1249,1806,3281,4234,4235,4236,4237,4238],"class_list":{"0":"post-17595","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-everyday-life","7":"category-ruminations","8":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","9":"category-music","10":"category-06_writing","11":"category-poetry-writing_cat","12":"tag-christmas","13":"tag-mark-strand","14":"tag-robert-frost","15":"tag-holidays","16":"tag-winter","17":"tag-george-winston","18":"tag-nancy-mcleery","19":"tag-hilda-morley","20":"tag-tung-hui-hu","21":"tag-solstice","22":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-4zN","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17595","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=17595"}],"version-history":[{"count":20,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17595\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":17615,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17595\/revisions\/17615"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17595"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17595"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17595"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}