Over the local stations, one by one, <br />Announcers list disasters like dark poems <br />That always happen in the skull of winter. <br />But once again the storm has passed us by: <br />Lovely and moderate, the snow lies down <br />While shouting children hurry back to play, <br />And scarved and smiling citizens once more <br />Sweep down their easy paths of pride and welcome. <br /> <br />And what else might we do? Les us be truthful. <br />Two counties north the storm has taken lives. <br />Two counties north, to us, is far away, - <br />A land of trees, a wing upon a map, <br />A wild place never visited, - so we <br />Forget with ease each far mortality. <br /> <br />Peacefully from our frozen yards we watch <br />Our children running on the mild white hills. <br />This is the landscape that we understand, - <br />And till the principle of things takes root, <br />How shall examples move us from our calm? <br />I do not say that is not a fault. <br />I only say, except as we have loved, <br />All news arrives as from a distant land.<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/beyond-the-snow-belt/
