Note: My classmate Mary Lou Meyers lives in a rural area, as the photos show. Thanks to Mary Lou for the poem and her husband David for the photos. I think there was no sun at when he took the photos, so they look like black & white photos.
It’s frozen solid, the layers of ice and snow,
compounded through the course of a frigid winter,
a few thawing periods, but buttoned up tight again.
A few inches of new snow on top of the pond,
just enough to provide my skis with a soft ride,
minus my poles because it’s steady as I go
wearing my New Hampshire insulated jacket,
I was ready to pack it away for a foray into the Arctic.
Underneath the patch-work quilt of snow,
the horse and donkey dig for any signs of green.
Last night we went to a garden show at Longwood Gardens;
there an English Woman, who bought Mrs. Jeckyll’s estate,
the most celebrated woman Gardener in the later 19th
and 20th century, talked of rambling roses and grape arbors,
and said, “We don’t get so much snow so late in the winter.”
She mentioned that gardens are such therapy.
Our sight, smell, and touch so divinely inspired,
we’re just waiting for cold weather to expire.
“Bring your Hot House Plants to the Garden Show,”
a director said on Public Radio.
So wait and see what will come of the March winds that blow.
Shall we have snow; what then will happen to the refrain
of Global Warming we hear everyday,
but in the end, will Nature have its way?
The last thing that Man proposes, Nature disposes,
maybe even rain mixed with snow.
Steady as you go, Sunday brings yet another round of snow.
Still Spring will come before you even know it and pass us by in a flash,
bogged down by summer sun that lasts and lasts
until Winter finally blasts us back to reality.
P.S. Mary Lou sent me one about Spring, which will post when we are closer to March 20th.