I’d seen a robin, days were getting mild,
the crocuses were up, and I could hear
the wild geese honking on the pond. Beguiled,
I’d set the garden chairs in place, in sheer
delight. The northern winter-spring transition
is never easy, but I’d hoped this year —
with father’s cancer gone into remission —
that April would be kind. Then we had snow
this afternoon, a boreal admonition:
Not so fast. Not so
fast.
Oh, to be the quiet sort
who bow their heads, accept the status quo,
conceding there’s a God, and we’re his sport,
that winter is so long, and life so short.