It's The Promise of Life

I make it a point to never praise the day until the evening arrives but (so far, so good) I'm the Least Disappointed Guy in the Place that the abject awfulness of Winter Storm Saturn did not materialize anywhere near the scale and scope feared earlier in this week.

I went for a walk yesterday afternoon after a terrible meeting on the phone.  I kept falling off, which explains my lack of enthusiasm I guess. The meeting was with lots of people I don't know or care to know and they know feel likewise. The same thing happened last month but I hung up. The blow back from that convinced me that this was a career-enhancing opportunity (at my age I worry about a career; ha-ha THUNK! Just laughed my head off).

It was incredibly blustery here in Southeastern Connecticut but we were extremely fortunate to NOT get belted about the way some forecasts had suggested we would and like many other people across the country most certainly did.

Poor March. We get some more daylight, sort of, starting this Sunday. Meanwhile, Spring, we keep telling one another, is just around the next corner and yet winter clings to our clothes and to our souls and chills our hearts. While I was walking, I realized I'd stumbled across a half-forgotten (by me) song  from an old Art Garfunkel album, written by Antonio Carlos Jobim.

Its memory and meaning warmed me for the rest of my day. I offer it to you and hope it does likewise.

"A stick, a stone, it's the end of the road.
It's the rest of a stump, it's a little alone.
It's a sliver of glass, it is life, it's the sun.
It is night, it is death, it's a trap, it's a gun.

The oak when it blooms, a fox in the brush.
The nod of the wood, the song of a thrush.
The wood of the wing, a cliff, a fall,
A scratch, a lump, it is nothing at all.

It's the wind blowing free, it's the end of a slope.
It's a bean, it's a void, it's a hunch, it's a hope.
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March.
It's the end of the strain, it's the joy in your heart.

The foot, the ground, the flesh and the bone,
The beat of the road, a sling-shot stone,
A truckload of bricks in the soft morning light,
The shot of a gun in the dead of the night.

A mile, a must, a thrust, a bump,
It's a girl, it's a rhyme, it's a cold, it's the mumps.
The plan of the house, the body in bed,
And the car that got stuck, it's the mud, it's the mud.

Afloat, adrift, a flight, a wing,
A cock, a quail, the promise of spring.
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March.
It's the promise of life, it's the joy in your heart.

A point, a grain, a bee, a bite,
A blink, a buzzard, a sudden stroke of night.
A pin, a needle, a sting, a pain,
A snail, a riddle, a wasp, a stain.

A snake, a stick, it is John, it is Joe,
A fish, a flash, a silvery glow.
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March.
It's the promise of life in your heart, in your heart.

A stick, a stone, the end of the load.
The rest of a stump, a lonesome road.
A sliver of glass, a life, the sun,
A night, a death, the end of the run.

And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March.
It's the end of all strain, it's the joy in your heart
-Antonio Carlos Jobim