a room with a view
"The frost performs its secret ministry," so writes British Romantic poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge in "Frost at Midnight," a "conversation poem" written for his son Hartley. And so it does. Yesterday afternoon I watched the lacy patterns of frost expand across the window of my study, noticing how the faint winter light highlighted the intricate details from one angle and then another. In these days of brutal cold--it is currently -4 degrees with a wind chill of -22--a beautiful pattern of frost helps dispel the mental gloom and the muscle twitches as I cope with frigid, interior days and long, dark nights. There's something magical about the frost, as Coleridge recognized; it appears "unhelped by any wind" and in unique floral patterns and arcing webs.
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