Anterooms
Out of the snowdrift
Which covered it, this pillared
Sundial starts to lift,
Able now at last
To let its frozen hours
Melt into the past
In bright, ticking drops.
Time so often hastens by,
Time so often stops–
Still, it strains belief
How an instant can dilate,
Or long years be brief.
Dreams, which interweave
All our times and tenses, are
What we can believe:
Dark they are, yet plain,
Coming to us now as if
Through a cobwebbed pane
Where, before our eyes,
All the living and the dead
Meet without surprise.
–Richard Wilbur, in The New Yorker January 5, 2009
Gladsome Lights 
what a profound poem; thank you!
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As always thought provoking. How are you? I have been thinking about you both and praying. I just wanted you to know. It looks like spring down here. Is it cold where you are still?
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Just to let you know that I finally made the green soup. It was a real success. I know my friend who is allergic to all sorts of stuff can eat it, too! Charles thought I should let you know how much we liked it … Leslie
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When we are young, we think time stands still. As we age, it flies and years feel like days. How are you?
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I love Wilbur, and isn’t it astounding how he continues to write such excellent poetry at his advanced age? He is a treasure.
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I wrote to him a few years ago. He wrote back!
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