It is decidedly not an April day in November here in Nebraska, where it was an unseasonable three degrees below zero when I woke up this morning. But, I can imagine, feel, grip, remember, and dream of the kind of day that Norman MacCaig wrote about in "April Day in November, Edinburgh." We've had those days here; today is just not one of those days, but that's okay.
And, too, I can imagine, feel, grip, remember (in a fascinatingly powerful genetic memory sort of way) and dream of Edinburgh itself, which I will probably never see, at least not until I see it from heaven's vantage point. But that's okay, too. Because today I have these words, this poem, and a new-to-me poet to love.
April Day in November, Edinburgh
The sun punches through the cloud gaps
with strong fists and the wind
buffets the buildings
with boisterous good will.
Bad memories are blown away
over the capering sea. Life
pulls up without straining
(Read the rest here, at The Writer's Almanac.)
The Poetry Friday round up is at Keri Recommends.