Still Standing

The Window
Raymond Carver

A storm blew in last night and knocked out
the electricity. When I looked
through the window, the trees were translucent.
Bent and covered with rime. A vast calm
lay over the countryside.
I knew better. But at that moment
I felt I’d never in my life made any
false promises, nor committed
so much as one indecent act. My thoughts
were virtuous. Later on that morning,
of course, electricity was restored.
The sun moved from behind the clouds,
melting the hoarfrost.
And things stood as they had before.

While I doubt that even untouched things remain, day to day, as they were before, I often find myself grateful to find that things still stand.

Carver's work, prose and poetry alike, stand well. Remember that the man was born to an alcoholic father who worked in a sawmill and a sometimes stay-at-home, sometimes waitress mother. Hosts of suppositions about writerly backgrounds could die on those twin swords, and there's no cause to mourn them.