Blizzard by James Schuyler

I think many of you, dear Reader(s) by now have figured out that I adore James Schuyler's poetry. For Christmas I got two copies of his Selected Poems--long story.

Blizzard

Tearing and tearing
ripped-up bits of paper, 
no, it's not paper
it's snow. Blown side-
ways in the wind,
coming in my window
wetting stacked books.
"Mr. Park called. He
can't come visiting
today." Of course not,
in this driving icy
weather. How I wish 
I were out in it! A
figure like an ex-
clamation point seen
through driving snow.

This was from Mr. Schuyler's Payne Whitney series--Payne Whitney being a psychiatric facility on the lower East Side of Manhattan. Reading this poem I feel claustrophobic, as if I'm locked in (as James probably was when he wrote this)--probably tearing up (as in tears running down his cheeks) wishing, so wishing for a visit from an old friend, but he understands. The weather is terrible.

Good luck Northeast.