Today's is a short poem about the joy of being alone.
(It should be read twice.)
Driving to Town Late to Mail a Letter
It is a cold and snowy night. The main street is deserted.
The only things moving are swirls of snow.
As I lift the mailbox door, I feel its cold iron.
There is a privacy I love in this snowy night.
Driving around, I will waste more time.
from Silence in the Snowy Fields, 1953
Wesleyan University Press, Middletown, Conn.
Copyright 1962 by Robert Bly.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced with permission (click for permissions information).