This Frosty Winter Night

Every so often, I’ll take a break from my novel-reading, and I’ll read some poetry.   I personally have a rather meager stash; some of Tennyson, a book of Frost, and all of Shakespeare, but really not much else.  Recently, Frost has been chilling (quite literally, as it’s gotten pretty cold out) in my car.  I refuse to go anywhere without a book, and so he’s been my emergency book for the past few weeks.

A couple of weekends ago, I got the chance to hangout at a coffee shop and took it, giving me some good time to read Frost’s work, and ever since then, I haven’t been able to get his poetry off my mind.

I sincerely enjoyed my rich, chooclately mocha curtesy of Coffee Slingers in downtown Oklahoma City while I read.

I sincerely enjoyed my rich, chooclate-ly mocha courtesy of Coffee Slingers in downtown Oklahoma City while I read.

I always enjoy Robert Frost, although he isn’t exactly my favorite poet.  However, one of his poems, “Good Hours,” really just seems to depict my life this winter.

Good Hours

 I had for my winter evening walk—

No one at all with whom to talk,

But I had the cottages in a row

Up to their shining eyes in snow.

 And I thought I had the folk within:

I had the sound of a violin;

I had a glimpse through curtain laces

Of youthful forms and youthful faces.

I had such company outward bound.

I went till there were no cottages found.

I turned and repented, but coming back

I saw no window but that was black.

 Over the snow my creaking feet

Disturbed the slumbering village street

Like profanation, by your leave,

At ten o’clock of a winter eve.

Robert Frost

I spend a good deal of time alone.  Partially by choice, partially by chance, hours and hours of my days are spent in solitude.  On Saturday, I decided to take an arbitrary-solo-Christmas-light-seeing-adventure through the historic, super fancy part of Oklahoma City, and as I drove, I felt quite like Frost (or Frost’s character, be it as it may), in the poem.  I was just an observer in people’s lives and homes, wandering through town in the dark of night (granted, I was in my safe, heated, minivan, but that is moderately irrelevant).  And as I drove, although I enjoyed myself, I began to notice how alone I really was, despite the many (strange) houses and streets that I passed.

There are many points in my life in which I have felt that my observations are intrusive, and I regret my solitary curiosity.

But next winter’s eve, chances are, I will once again be found, the only soul left awake in a slumbering house, the only headlights in a dark street, and the only eyes left to see what happens when the people stop watching.

So here’s to winter, and nights worth remembering.

Until next time,

Claire Marie


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