Doldrums

That time of year thou mayest in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me though seest the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This though perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Sonnet 73 by William Shakespeare

The moment I opened the blog window to write, this poem came to mind. I guess it must have been that first four lines especially that brought it to me. I look out the window of my office and see the naked branches of the trees, and it isn't hard to picture these as being a jumbled "ruined" choir loft--chairs all turned over, their legs jutting in all directions--where not so long ago I saw blossoms and green leaves and singing birds.

I once wrote a story in which the opening lines identified January as "dead space." The month doesn't even have the Super Bowl any more, does it? With apologies to all with January birthdays and anniversaries, I must say that the month seems ill chosen as the beginning of the new year. Wouldn't the beginning of April be more appropriate? Then we have the greening of the world and the returning of birds. We seem surrounded by "new." Those with January birthdays were more than likely conceived in April!

Part of this mood is probably to do with the space I'm in. The long Christmas break here at the university is over too soon, but the new semester and its excitement is not yet arrived. So I'm particularly sensitive to the notion of the doldrums in life, in calendars, in schedules.

Then again, yesterday was different. The wind outside the window was white with snow! Although I often recognize a strong spiritual or emotional connection with rain, snow is my favorite precipitation. I realize this is probably because I live in a fairly temperate climate where I don't live with snow from October or November through April or May. That might get old. Given that I don't live there, I can love snow without reservation. I could have gotten much more work done yesterday if not for sitting and staring out the window, watching the big white flakes swirl in the wind and lay beautifully along the chaotic lines of "[b]are ruined choirs" outside my window.