Snow shoe trip #7 (and a Shakespeare Sonnet)

So its mid term exam week at WHS, so when you combine writing exams, correcting exams, averaging grades for the end of the second quarter, AND moving into a brand new room across campus, things definitely get "CRAZY" (I'm victim of my own meandering) in the life of Goldsmith. This is why, after exams today, I took to the backwoods of Fairfield, snowshoes strapped on, in search of some peace and quiet. As always when I head into the woods, I find exactly what I am looking for; I think Fairfield is a beautiful town. I came across a "deer hotel," if you will. See the trails leading up to the base of the trees? What deer will often do is find a secluded and sheltered spot, "thresh" it by kicking away snow and piling on leaves and pine needles, and then sleep there. I learned about these types of spots from Amanda; she is a real "wilderness detective!" An eerie part of the trip was how, for 80% of it, I saw no signs of houses or farms or anything. I forget sometimes just how big Fairfield is. Also, I picked a beautiful time of day in which to go--it was for that last hour or so of daylight, when the sky's palette is rich with silvers, pinks, purples, and reds. I know that sounds wicked lame. Shut up. You had to be there . . ..
There were lots of fields to traverse this afternoon, which is a change from being "in the woods" so to speak. This meant there was a lot more wind . . .in fact my face looks very Irish red today. But every once in a while you'd come across beautiful little spots like this where you were once again led into the shelter of the pines. . . .
Here's a poem I was thinking about as I was snowshoeing this afternoon--its Shakespeare's sonnet Number 73. He wrote well over a hundred sonnets, and they go in chronological order (#1 was written while he was young . . .#99 was written when he was an older man, etc.) Number 73, was, obviously, written in the "September" of his years . . .and its about the realization death is near. But I also think its a poem about just "stillness," and the natural cycle of the seasons (and life) and how we can always, always, always count on love. I hope you take the couple of minutes to read it--and maybe even understand it. I think he's a beautiful writer of poetry . . .

Sonnet 73
William Shakespeare

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.