Late spring complaint

Photo: Wesley Shaver, Pexels

I’ve held up through many a North Country winter and this one was no worse than many, and better than some. But by May, I expect my just recompense: blossoms, birdsong, sunshine. To misquote the legal maxim, “spring delayed is spring denied.” I hate to complain (well, actually I love to complain, at least about the weather; it’s a cherished North Country prerogative), but enough is enough. Let there be sun.

Late spring complaint

Spring has stalled again in that spot that feels
more November than May. Wind whips cold rain;
gray clouds scud low over drenched hilltops,
and the heart – long-distance runner that it is -
slogs rubber-legged with a stitch in its side
up the last long slope before the blessed finish.

All the rivers rise and will keep on rising for weeks;
who can say where they will stop? Water taking land,
fog choking air, rain down the neck, mud in shoes.
The lilacs bide in bud; the apple hoards its blooms.
Where is the trillium? Where is the heron? The sun?
The windshield wipers beat their endless idiot reply.

 

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