One Day Closer
It is the third day of a rare February melt
and still, the snow remains, grey in the morning,
the colors of old grass and wheat still buried,
just out of sight.
The creeks are high. Blocks of ice catch on fallen trees.
The water is angry, awakened from its winter sleep.
Today will tell the tale.
Another day of melt and the colors will return.
The landscape will burst with the browns and yellows,
almost dead things will become bright in comparison
to the smothering white snow.
You stand and look across the lake.
You feel the breeze for a hint of warmth
and find none. It is winter still
and you tighten your scarf around your neck.
The day will be a long one, cold and hard, but
one day closer to spring.
About this poem
About Winter. About life.
The bones of the old house moan in the wind.
The barn begins to flood.
The mere act of walking becomes a task,
the slogging through mud, long frozen.
This is the way of winter
This is the way of spring.
The thaw is never easy
and for a brief time, you are unsure
to yearn for.
About this poem
Driving home from Massachusetts today, the temperature hit 32 degrees. It has been so cold here – several days hovering around -20, that the snow and ice must have been eager to thaw. As I passed fields and farms, I saw half-melted ice, the dark melting water below, the last of the frozen snow skimming the surface.
It won’t last. Winter came early and hard here in Vermont, and we have a few months of it yet, but the mess reminded me of what we call flood season up here and the uncertainty of weather, and beyond weather.
And it made me think of not just weather, but change. That wonderful, scary thing.
Smiling at the thought,
It is late in the winter, nearly spring, and the first colors are starting to show themselves.