Stockton Springs, Maine

Snow-flakes

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

Out of the bosom of the Air,

      Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,

Over the woodlands brown and bare,

      Over the harvest-fields forsaken,

            Silent, and soft, and slow

            Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take

      Suddenly shape in some divine expression,

Even as the troubled heart doth make

      In the white countenance confession,

            The troubled sky reveals

            The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,

      Slowly in silent syllables recorded;

This is the secret of despair,

      Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,

            Now whispered and revealed

            To wood and field. 

 

In Maine, where winter has arrived and isn't leaving anytime soon.

We were propelled through the streets of Portland last night  by a

biting wind,on our way to dinner at Fore Street. Excellent arctic

char, black sea bass, sardines, and hake. A most welcome break on

the long road to Stockton Springs.

Surprise, surprise - Jeff and Wendy are here, all the way from

Gresham, Oregon! What a thrill to see them in the lobby of the hotel

this morning. That makes 19 of us here, in Dad and Jean's house,

hailing from Florida, Vermont, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Maine,

and Oregon. As predicted, much talk and laughter. Zig, Abe, and I

had breakfast at Chase's Daily in Belfast, then stopped at Left Bank

Books in Searsport to pick up several books we'd ordered.

Spinning: None

Knitting: 15% of Nightfall Sock #2 is done, PLUS a tiny bit of

progress on the Malthese Flowers shawl.

Exercise: Nope, other than violent shivering in the brutally cold

streets of Portland last night.

Diet/Water: No desserts, a very light lunch. Need more water,

though.