It’s April in New Hampshire.
The earth is feeling fickle —
here a soft and spongy grass
proposing a new way,
there a sheet of sheer white ice
to keeps woods walkers at bay,
and now a puddle of frozen mud,
just to make a point.
The chickadees don’t seem to mind,
they’re busy doing spring bird things
as squirrels squirrel and grip the oaks
while buds still lay in wait.
It’s quite a wild and drastic thing
for woods to shift from snow to spring,
and these frozen hands cannot fathom
an air warm enough for unpocketing.
How nature bears this year by year,
while for us change churns with grief
and fear — I wonder if it’s all to say
we are not alone in our furious love.
The earth is feeling fickle —
here a soft and spongy grass
proposing a new way,
there a sheet of sheer white ice
to keeps woods walkers at bay,
and now a puddle of frozen mud,
just to make a point.
The chickadees don’t seem to mind,
they’re busy doing spring bird things
as squirrels squirrel and grip the oaks
while buds still lay in wait.
It’s quite a wild and drastic thing
for woods to shift from snow to spring,
and these frozen hands cannot fathom
an air warm enough for unpocketing.
How nature bears this year by year,
while for us change churns with grief
and fear — I wonder if it’s all to say
we are not alone in our furious love.