Roz Chast’s January New Yorker cover “Cruellest Month” made us laugh out loud. “I wanted to show just the horribleness of January.” Chast says. And she did, of February as well. We particularly relate to:
Sunset at 11 am.
Crosstown Bus Never Comes
Weird Frozen Pellets
Then we remembered something:
…a kind of summer…
I went out of the schoolhouse fast
and through the gardens and to the woods,
and spent all summer forgetting what I’d been taught —
two times two, and diligence, and so forth,
how to be modest and useful, and how to succeed and so forth,
machines and oil and plastic and money and so forth.
By fall I had healed somewhat, but was summoned back
to the chalky rooms and the desks, to sit and remember
the way the river kept rolling its pebbles,
the way the wild wrens sang though they hadn’t a penny in the bank,
the way the flowers were dressed in nothing but light.
—Just As The Calendar Began to Say Summer by Mary Oliver
Summer airing –
trying on a quilt,
Gently I stir a white feather fan,
With open shirt sitting in a green wood.
I take off my cap and hang it on a jutting stone;
A wind from the pine-trees trickles on my bare head.
—Li Po (8th century)