when a writer drives home on April 17, grateful she’s wearing her winter parka and snow boots, sees truckers chaining up, and calls her husband from the entrance to the driveway to navigate the vehicle through the snow.
Snow is high and snow is low.
It’s hard to drive and hard to go.
Sun is bright and sun is warm.
When will it do that snow some harm?
Trees are bare but ground is not.
Hopes for camping are all shot.
Spring is here, or so they say.
I know it’s true though sky is gray.
Birds will sing and grass be green.
Blooms and bright leaves will be seen.
So now I wait here in the snow,
for spring will come and cold will go.