Black Rook In Rainy Weather

On the stiff twig up there

Hunches a wet black rook

Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain-

I do not expect a miracle

Or an accident

To set the sight on fire

In my eye, nor seek

Any more in the desultory weather some design,

But let spotted leaves fall as they fall

Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,

Occasionally, some backtalk

From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:

A certain minor light may still

Lean incandescent

Out of kitchen table or chair

As if a celestial burning took

Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then —

Thus hallowing an interval

Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largesse, honor

One might say love. At any rate, I now walk

Wary (for it could happen

Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); sceptical

Yet politic, ignorant

Of whatever angel any choose to flare

Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook

Ordering its black feathers can so shine

As to seize my senses, haul

My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear

Of total neutrality. With luck,

Trekking stubborn through this season

Of fatigue, I shall

Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur.

If you care to call those spasmodic

Tricks of radiance

Miracles. The wait's begun again,

The long wait for the angel,

For that rare, random descent.

Sylvia Plath

Quiet Hope

I think people mostly like it when they yield to the excitement that’s generated when a child believes in fairies and magic and Santa. We encourage it with fantastical stories and money under pillows and surprises under Christmas trees. Perhaps it reminds us of the brevity of our own childhoods, when we willingly accepted that anything and everything could be possible.

I believed in Santa long past when my friends did. My older brother encouraged it. He was a paperboy, delivering the morning newspaper, navigating every street in the neighborhood on his bike in the predawn. After his deliveries on Christmas Day he would sneak up to my room and tell me how he caught a glimpse of Santa and the reindeer. If I had any doubts, these vivid reports put an end to them.

I have grown to love "Black Rook In Rainy Weather." Its meaning fluctuates and deepens for me with each reading. I feel the gray and muted skies, and also the hope that a minor light can become a radiant beam. One of my greatest fears is for nothing to matter, akin to the poet’s “fear of total neutrality.” Her “trekking stubborn through this season of fatigue” can resonate on many levels for me: physical, emotional, spiritual. And I want to “haul my eyelids up” and see the miracles that can happen.

I read this poem to be reminded that the quiet hope of what might happen doesn't only belong to childhood. Miracles of light and meaning can happen, even in an ordinary landscape. Or maybe especially in one.