Gordon Lightfoot– and a later cover by Harry Belafonte and Sarah McLachan– sang the evocative Song for a Winter’s Night:
The lamp is burning low
Upon my tabletop
The snow is softly falling
I read again between the lines
Upon each page
The words of love you sent me
Here, in my house, I have the Song for a Winter’s Morning:
The sky is gray
And the snow is growing deep
But we are fed and cozy
The bread is rising and the
Soup is simmering
And the three are playing
quietly
For this moment I don’t see the odd new gouge in the table and I don’t see the precariously overladen heap of recycling and I don’t even hear the ominous thump-thump-whump of the washing machine (it does NOT usually make that noise).
I am happy just to be here. Inside, warm, with this moment. With what I have.
In an hour or two we leap and parry again. Tomorrow is back-to-school: backpacks and schoolbooks must be rustled up repacked. Back to work: lunch bags and laptops located and work email reluctantly checked.
This is my Winter Morning.
These are the hands I love.
