And here we are, here I am, snowed in, on top of my hill (pictures from back and front of house), unable to go out due to getting ill the first time the snow had settled in, just a week ago. I was going to put up a poem on the snow, but I thought, no, enough is enough, it's time for a poem on the poet by Janet Frame.
"Poets" by Janet Frame
Poets are not afraid to drown.
The dry people of the dry world walk on
wanting to dive in yet not having learned
to swim or administer mouth-to-mouth breathing.
The poet is a poor fish, they say. Leave him.
O Tom Dick and Harry
Mabel Mildred and Cora
what is that tide flowing out of the room and into the street?