The Poet Who Understood Winter

I was browsing a poetry website by titles today, and found this, written--no wonder of it--by Robert Frost. He and I are old, old friends, fellow natives of New England. It is he whom I always think of as "the poet who understood winter."

Few people in these days understand winter. They do not sit still in the silence long enough, nor stand staring at a single frozen streambank, an ice-crusted leaf, the silvery sunlight--as only winter sunlight can be any other than bronze--on snow... the solemn propriety of a cold-stiffened sparrow, still upright, dead, upon its branch.

There is much that I could say about this poem, much that deserves to be said, far more than just "he understood winter." But I want to linger over it longer, delve it deeper, before raising my voice above a whisper. Then, perhaps, I will know what to say.

It seems to me that beauty demands silent attention... until silence give way to praise, and attention to passionate exposition. Is it not so with our adoration of God?