January 26, 2003
Mary Oliver’s poems bring ice storm memories. Sodden air and icicles, a shiny grey drenching, the delicate birches bent double, trailing their fingertips on the slick-crusted snow. The road too glossy and hung with an impenetrable curtain of branches. And then, as though the reflection itself was too heavy to bear, the shattering of a million mirrors… After the first wave, which woke us from sleep and made us weep, rogue snipers continued to roam the woods, firing randomly for days, perversely putting the 100-year-old trees out of their misery. Only it was more a massacre than a mercy killing.