And suddenly, the snow is gone.
The mix of mud and grass underneath
is jarring. And not just to the eye.
The earth, warmed in the afternoons
begins to smell of spring.
In the forests, tubes full of sap begin to drip.
Look closely at the forsythia, just two days ago
encased in ice, and you see buds.
You are not there yet.
It is not yet spring. No.
Snow is predicted in two days,
but you feel it in your bones,
the change of seasons, once seeming
so far away, is on us and
you have survived another dark season,
lived to feel the warmth in the sun again.
About this poem
You work and work and work through things in life. Never feeling the progress, and then one day, you do.
Or about almost spring in Vermont. Your choice.