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The
winter is too long and drear.
I dream of spring, of light and air
that's warm and bright and clear.
Then suddenly to my reading eye appears
Olav Hauge, and I hear him say,
The old poet has made a line.
And he's happy as a cider bottle
in spring after it's sent
a fresh bubble up
and is about to pop its cork.
Yes, my old like-me-wannabe-Chinese Norwegian friend,
to make a line is almost as good as spring.
(David Budbill, electronic
mail, February 22, 2006)
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