The Betrayal of Seasons
It is early in the season, here in Vermont.
Too early to plant, they say.
There are hard frosts left to come,
killing frosts. Late in the year, they come,
harsher for the season they arrive in,
harsher for the expectations of spring
suddenly punctuated with ice in the air.
Even today, late in April, snow falls.
Snow falls, but melts the moment it finds purchase,
disappears, no longer a thing of the earth,
but a thing of the air, seen briefly
and then gone.
You sip your coffee, look out the window,
glad for a place of warmth,
glad there are lights here to offset the greyness,
pushing back your own winter,
the one that has no seasons, for one more day,
planting seeds despite the warnings, knowing
some will survive.
You trust, not the prognosticators, but the wildflowers,
the ones in the quarry defying the cold,
the ones that insist on blooming early,
insist on screaming color in the worst of seasons,
no matter the betrayal of calendars.
About this poem
About the time of year here in Vermont. (It is April 28th and snowing outside). About the resilience of wildflowers. About the resilience of people in a life that insists on not going according to plan.
The picture was taken this weekend in the quarry across the street from my house.