THE REGION NOVEMBER
It is hard to hear the north wind again,
And to watch the treetops, as they sway.
They sway, deeply and loudly, in an effort,
So much less than feeling, so much less than speech,
Saying and saying, the way things say
On the level of that which is not yet knowledge:
A revelation not yet intended.
It is like a critic of God, the world
And human nature, pensively seated
On the waste throne of his own wilderness.
Deeplier, deeplier, loudlier, loudlier,
The trees are swaying, swaying, swaying.
-Wallace Stevens
Gladsome Lights 
But morning is coming.
LikeLiked by 1 person
And springtime.
LikeLike
Do you mean the springtime of the Lord? Since it isn’t even winter yet.
LikeLike
It’s a poem… I don’t know what all it might mean, or that I mean. I was responding to what I thought Sandi might mean — haha! Stevens reportedly wrote this poem in what turned out to be the winter of his life.
LikeLike
Wallace Stevens is a favorite.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Poetry is so mysterious. While reading it, I was straining to understand his meaning, which I didn’t, really. Until I got to the human nature, pensively seated on the throne of our own wilderness – oh, yeah, I got that part.
LikeLiked by 1 person