No more. No Less

At night, the temperature falls. Mostly below freezing.
The windshield ices up.
A glaze overs the ponds, short-lived
as the day warms.

It is the change, the shift,
the tension between cold and warm
that makes the sap rise in the old maples.
Syrup season here in Vermont.

The snow melts each day,
some days fast, causing flooding
in the most unlikely places.
You can see winter withdraw, no match for spring.

It is mud season. Too much rain
and too much melt, temporarily overwhelming
as life too often is.

Each season has its time.
Light and dark. Heat and cold.
Drought and flood. None of it static.
Each vying for more than it’s place,

each a victor,
each the defeated
for a season.
No more. No less.

About this poem.

Nothing lasts forever. The seasons try to tell us, again and again. Depending on where we are in our journey, that can be comforting or cruel. But it is always true.

The sap for maple syrup is running right now. We are on the edge between Winter and Spring. A magical time of change in the seasons you can see in all its uneven raggedness.

The picture is of a nearby barn in Mud Season (A fifth season here in Vermont) last year. Mud season too, is coming.

Tom