First, The Breaking Branch

Usually first snows are little more than a cross-winded flurry but the one we saw this past weekend was a full-on branch breaker.  Cars slid off roadsides and into one another, power was out for a number of hours and the pond got a coating of ice.  All an excitement covered just a bit by the inevitable salt of dread.

Much like the early so-called 'confessional poetry' of Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath and Robert Lowell, to name a few of its more famous practitioners. Lowell's work I took to early then left.  Sexton I return to again and again for meanings that change and change again, much like the fairy tales she transposed. Plath, I never left.

Anne and Sylvia were friends and I often think of them together in those first days...writing, laughing, writing...and my heart fills.  Then breaks.  Every time.  That first snow? breaking branches with its weight? Sexton and Plath, they broke plenty, lost power occasionally and were iced over, and over again by an establishment not ready at all for work that threatened to blow a poetic door, maybe two, right off its hinge.

And covered with the inevitable salt of dread?  That too.  Yes, that too.