and yet one more time....but this time it is nice

On warm (still under 32 but over 20) mornings with fresh snow that won't require a shovel for a change, it is just grand looking out my office window at the marshlands, the deer footprints and the for once happy birds with food in their feeders.

Groundhog day (yesterday) is finally over and that Bill Murray film, which played endlessly yesterday (hey! here's a programming thought breakthrough - we'll air the movie Groundhog Day on (drum roll please) Groundhog Day...it's a natural!) I got my morning Shakespeare Sonnet in my email (yes! indeed, there is a site that sends them out to you every morning free of charge).   I recommend that you sign up for it (http://www.shakespeares-sonnets.com/) because, well you just should.  This doesn't have anything to do with politics (although we might have better leadership if we had politicos who took the time to read and reflect) or perhaps your job (although it may make you a more interesting person).   It has to do with sustaining.  Chris the radio announcer on Northern Exposure always waxed and waned nostalgic about such things of the mind and frankly he was right.

There was an episode in the first year of that really quirky series when Chris read Walt Whitman over the airwaves and Maurice went ballistic about his interpretation.  A town hall meeting was called because Chris was fired for his views and they wanted him back. The whole town showed up...all in support of Chris and his views on poetry.  I wish we would have that discussion here.  I'm tired of our politicos talking about stuff they just mess up.   Grrrrrrr. Now I'm mad. Perhaps the Sonnet, read lovingly to someone you love, in person or in your mind will be a mid-winter tonic.....

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.