A Hermit’s Crucifix

Come with rain, O loud Southwester!

Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
Make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate’er you do tonight,
Bathe my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit’s crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o’er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.

―Robert Frost, "To the Thawing Wind"

*******

Dear Kate,

Monday writing is mandatory.  There, I gave you the first line of a poem, yet to be written, mine, possibly yours.

Spring writing too.

What is a writer who couldn't come up with any poetry in spring?  A sham writer who hasn't died a proper death in her winter months.

The resurrection is the vindication of a man crucified.  Died, was buried, and descended to hell too, as the Apostles' Creed teaches (something we have untaught ourselves over the years).

It's been almost an exact year since we started working from home, being locked behind our own doors.  How has your dying been?  And how the hell was hell for you?

What wind, if any, is turning you, the poet, out of door?

Yours, Alex