Winterlight There is no light so resonant as maplelight on November afternoons when late sun strikes with everything he has through storm-rinsed blue. Unless it be the winter skyline— tangerine and lemon all day at the edge of iron in the far and colorful country beyond the mountains. I was on my way to some necessary task. And now I am watching the squirrels roll up maplelight leaf by leaf, stuff it in their mouths and run away with it. And this is my task now too, not quite self-appointed: to partake of light as long as my heart and the beating day allow.
Here’s a little rambling meditation on the poem. Or that starts from the poem, anyway:
The book I mention is this one, which I cannot possibly recommend highly enough. It will not be the gamechanger for everyone that it is for me, but it is a deeply resonant and beautiful cup of tea, from which anyone might drink much of value.