There is something about the snow-laden sky in winter in the late afternoon that brings to the heart elation and the lovely meaninglessness of time. Whenever I get home - whenever - somebody loves me there. Meanwhile, I stand in the same dark peace as any pine tree, or wander on slowly like the still unhurried wind, waiting, as for a gift, for the snow to begin - which it does at first casually, then, irrepressibly. Wherever else I live - in music, in words, in the fires of the heart, I abide just as deeply in this nameless, indivisible place, this world, which is falling apart now, which is white and wild, which is faithful beyond all our expressions of faith, our deepest prayers. Don't worry, sooner or later I'll be home. Red-cheeked from the roused wind, I'll stand in the doorway stamping my boots and slapping my hands, my shoulders covered with stars. - Mary Oliver "Walking Home from Oak-head"