spynotes ::
  February 03, 2007
Winter Blues

This is the second day in a row it has not cracked double digit temperatures. The wind has whipped the dry, sandy snow into a frenzy of miniature tornadoes, making driving by the mown cornfields an arctic adventure.

I am typing a Mr. Spy's computer in front of the big bay window that looks out to the barn. It is brilliantly sunny. But don't be fooled -- you can tell it's colder than it looks by the fact that the horses have not yet left the relative warmth of the barn today.

I am gaining great pleasure from the new barn doors. They have replaced the dark, dreary brown with dusty red with black iron hardware. It looks cozy in the snow, and more playful. I was reminded, for some reason, of May Swenson's poem:

I painted the mailbox. That was fun.
I painted it postal blue.
Then I painted the gate.
I painted a spider that got on the gate.
I painted his mate.
I painted the ivy around the gate.
Some stones I painted blue,
and part of the cat as he rubbed by.
I painted my hair. I painted my shoe.
I painted the slats, both front and back,
all their beveled edges, too.
I painted the numbers on the gate--
I shouldn't have, but it was too late.
I painted the posts, each side and top,
I painted the hinges, the handle, the lock,
several ants and a moth asleep in a crack.
At last I was through.
I'd painted the gate
shut, me out, with both hands dark blue,
as well as my nose, which,
early on, because of a sudden itch,
got painted. But wait!
I had painted the gate.

It's a summer poem -- and one I keep meaning to share with AJ. It reminds me of the summer my brother and I were in charge of painting the two white picket fences that marked the end of the long gravel drive to our Connecticut house. My father was interested in the finished product -- a clean white fence with no more cocoons for Gypsy moths on its back side. My brother and I, though, were much more interested in the process, the slick smoothness of the wet paint, the solidity of the drips, the way they were like brighter versions of the stones in the driveway. That was the first summer I was determined to be able to run from the house to the mailbox (alas, not blue) in my bare feet--I had a yogic desire to rise above the pain of the sharp stones that paved the drive. I did it, too. By August, I could have walked on hot coals. By August my ankles were caked with the dust of the sand that held the gravel. And a few drips of white paint.

The pleasure of the big red door, though, in the white and dirt-colored snow of the paddock is immeasurable. It is not postal blue, but it will do.

2 people said it like they meant it

 
:: last :: next :: random :: newest :: archives ::
:: :: profile :: notes :: g-book :: email ::
::rings/links :: 100 things :: design :: host ::

(c) 2003-2007 harri3tspy

<< chicago blogs >>