Just two days ago you stood here, wondering
at the buds, February-early, on the forsythia,
a groundhog’s promise of early spring,
now mocked by two days of ice and snow,
each bright bud encapsulated in ice coffins,
a reset on nature’s clock, spring set back
with the beautiful deadly crystals of cold.
You are not discouraged. Spring is inevitable.
That thought has propelled you through many a dark season.
Color will not be denied.
About this poem
We’re in the midst of a two-day ice storm. Limbs in the forest are breaking. The lights flicker from time to time. And the forsythia in the back yard drip with ice (They are in the picture.).
And yet, it is mid-day and life si good. I am warm at home with the woman I love. Each of us doing bits of work before coming back together. A special kind of hominess, icebound, and liking it, aware, all appearances to the contrary, spring is coming, be it seasonal or spiritual.