Wind is blowing the leaves around,
air that smells like sleep.
Yet this is when the true Canuck awakens:
When we hear that familiar tune on the tube,
Dah-dat dah-dahh dahh daaaahhhh!
Tingles course the spine like rivulets
of ice racing across a pond on a cold night.
What sight could be more joyous than the white
gleam of a fresh, unscarred sheet?
So what if the powers that be determine the big
boys won't come out to play this year,
the rest of us—true lovers of the game—
will skate on 3 a.m. ice, skate until we puke,
alternate swigs of beer and coffee for breakfast
bitch about whining millionaires, then drive
the kids to practice. Because if you let winter
clamp down on your heart, you slowly wither
among four walls, in front of a TV reality.
3 comments:
I acn relate to that! As a Norwegian.
Yesterday behind Oslo Cathedral I soaked up the last of the sunshine yesetrday evening - gleaming through chestnut leaves into the sparse thin-threaded spurts from a Victorian fountain where Flora spreads her bounty forever into the murky basin beneath -- soon now throwing her coppery-green flowers where they must land on ice or a heap of snow.
Aisha
I didn't think Norwegians were into hockey ;-))
But the rest of your response makes me think you've been reading Longfellow. What a beautiful piece to leave in my blog. Thanks!
RT
HMMMM--
Waiting...
Good as it is, I am getting bored with this post.
Aish
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