Something about long nights and short days always brings me back to reading more poetry.
I have to confess,
I get so caught up in the combinations of beautiful words that I sometimes forget to think about what the poem means.
Wallace Stevens poem, "Sunday Morning" is that way for me. I get stuck thinking about:
"Late coffee and oranges in a sunny chair, and the green freedom of a cockatoo upon a rug..."
"The day is like wide water, without sound, stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet..."