Winter in April
Here in Vermont, the winters are cold,
sometimes brutal, never gentle,
a teasing sort of punishment for those of us who stay.
And so it is at the end of April, snow is blowing
and there is a sheen of ice across the quarry
and you find yourself indoors in what should be a season of sun.
There is no normal here. That is what you discovered.
Behind the bucolic scenery and towns postcarded
like 1955, every ill lives here that lives in the cities you left behind,
hidden behind prettier backdrops perhaps,
but we are excused nothing for the privilege of living
in a land without billboards.
That is not a complaint. I love it here,
and since we all suffer in this life. (It is sure as seasons.)
better to choose your place of pain.
The snow falls. The sun shines. It is cold again.
No matter. You have fresh flowers on the window.
Coffee brews. You are in a good place in a bad time.
Who could wish for more?
This too shall pass. So says the bible.
Only it never did. We did, and we believe it so fervently
we gave it biblical status,
proving at that at times we can uncover
wisdom on our own, and so, give our suffering
About this poem.
I had to wrench this one out this morning.
I do love Vermont. It is not what I thought it when I first came here, but I love it still. But then, one of the lessons I learned moving here from Virginia, is that I think I could live anywhere, and be pretty happy with it.
It was snowing this morning, on the 22nd of April. Eleven years ago when I first came here that would have surprised me. Now? Not at all.
Somehow, from that, this poem.