A Song For Simeon

I am generally skeptical about any news conveyed that predicts horrendous storms, especially ones that promise to dump a possible thirteen inches of snow into our viewing area. Call me a cynic, but with a yawn, I chalk up such stories as the media's attempt to sensationalize even the weather and stir the public into a quasi-panic of rushing to grocery stores and other places warranted as necessary, guaranteeing that the common man and woman will become consumed with tracking the storm and glue themselves to a particular tv station. And yet, I cannot deny it; this time those meteorologists got it right. Outside the wind is furious, whipping snow about in a near blinding frenzy. The streets are abandoned and the sane, I hope, are tucked away in warmer dwellings. I wonder if Wal-mart and the 24-hour McDonald's drive-thru is closed because everything else is.

Yes, I myself became a bit consumed and driven to check out what was going on in the world outside my house. Not that it really matters. Cancellations of any sort do not affect me. Even my husband, whose not-for-profit employer closes when the public schools call it quits for a day, has vowed to venture down Brady Street hill and catch up on the work plaguing his desk and his mind. If he can get out the door. What exactly does thirteen inches of snow look like? Still, though not reveling in the rest of a snow day, the boys and I will celebrate this break in the monotony of days so lethargic the sun is not even capable of rising and shedding some much needed light. With chilling temperatures in the forecast and my inability to invest in appropriate winter attire, I doubt we will venture outside. But, before snuggling into beds tonight, I promised the boys hot cocoa made from real chocolate bars left over from all my holiday fudge making; I even suspect there are still some tiny marshmallows left over too. Stay warm dear friends in the Midwest. And a blessed Feast of the Presentation of Christ in the Temple. 


A Song For Simeon
T. S. Eliot

Lord, the Roman hyacinths are blooming in bowls and

The winter sun creeps by the snow hills;

The stubborn season has made stand.

My life is light, waiting for the death wind,

Like a feather on the back of my hand.

Dust in sunlight and memory in corners

Wait for the wind that chills towards the dead land.

     Grant us thy peace.

I have walked many years in this city,

Kept faith and fast, provided for the poor,

Have given and taken honour and ease.

There went never any rejected from my door.

Who shall remember my house, where shall live my children's children

When the time of sorrow is come?

They will take to the goat's path, and the fox's home,

Fleeing from the foreign faces and the foreign swords.

     Before the time of cords and scourges and lamentation

Grant us thy peace.

Before the stations of the mountain of desolation,

Before the certain hour of maternal sorrow,

Now at this birth season of decease,

Let the Infant, the still unspeaking and unspoken Word,

Grant Israel's consolation

To one who has eighty years and no-tomorrow.

     According to thy word.

They shall praise Thee and suffer in every generation

With glory and derision,

Light upon light, mounting the saints' stair.

Not for me the martyrdom, the ecstasy of thought and prayer,

Not for the me the ultimate vision.

Grant me thy peace.

(And a sword shall pierce thy heart,

Thine also.)

I am tired with my own life and the lives of those after me.

I am dying in my own death and the deaths of those after me.

Let thy servant depart,

Having seen thy salvation.

Poetry Wednesday