Peggy Freydberg

Blizzard

It takes courage to see beauty
in a world spread deep and silent
with interminable whiteness;
and to keep on being awed
by such uncommon splendor
while trying to suppress
a fundamental fear
of being buried by it.

But know it as it is:
Beauty is everlasting.
And winter's burial is not.
Underneath cold winter bone,
the flesh of summer sleeps.

A year before Peggy Freydberg died

her poems were first published.

She was 106.

She wrote about aging through the prism

of her life on The Vineyard.

Her work is remarkable.