Mount Kearsarge

by Donald Hall 

Mount Kearsarge shines with ice; from hemlock branches 

snow slides onto snow; no stream, creek, or river 

               budges but remains still. Tonight

we carry armloads of logs

from woodshed to Glenwood and build up the fire 

that keeps the coldest night outside our windows.

Sit by the woodstove, Camilla, 

               while I bring glasses of white,

and we'll talk, passing the time, about weather 

without pretending that we can alter it:

Storms stop when they stop, no sooner,

leaving the birches glossy

with ice and bent glittering to rimy ground.

We'll avoid the programmed weatherman grinning 

               from the box, cheerful with tempest,

and take the day as it comes,

one day at a time, the way everyone says,

These hours are the best because we hold them close

in our uxorious nation.

Soon we'll walk -- when days turn fair

and frost stays off -- over old roads, listening 

for peepers as spring comes on, never to miss 

               the day's offering of pleasure

for the government of two.