This poem showed up on my screen a week or so ago, courtesy of Writers' Almanac. It brought to mind the forty-year-old essay that appeared here for the last two days. Margaret Atwood, a Canadian novelist (and, I guess, poet) is on a different beach--all stones, no sand--but it's the same winter environment. Have a good look at what she sees. Read the poem slowly and you won't be surprised at all surprised by the title--or the last line.
You Are Happy
by Margaret Atwood
The water turns
a long way down over the raw stone,
ice crusts around it
We walk separately
along the hill to the open
beach, unused
picnic tables, wind
shoving the brown waves, erosion, gravel
rasping on gravel.
In the ditch a deer
carcass, no head. Bird
running across the glaring
road against the low pink sun.
When you are this
cold you can think about
nothing but the cold, the images
hitting into your eyes
like needles, crystals, you are happy.
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