One January, I saw the Spring outside, with a pickaxe in her hand.
She stood there in her Boticelli gown
Industrial gloves pulled on
Hands on hips
Long handled axe hung down at side
And she surveyed the scene
With piercing eye.
“Those trunks need scrubbing;
And the frost from every bough
And leaf must be scraped off..
No slacking now!
We’ve every tree and surface
On a planetary hemisphere to clear
And only 2 months left.
I’ll start to hew the glaciers in the north
But the garden ponds are yours.
The lakes and rivers we will do in ranks.
God knows if we will ever get the thanks
That we deserve,
But just think!
What would happen if this great work
Were not done by us?”
But, as the frosty air with which she spoke
Curled up to freeze her nose,
overhearing, far above
in a work of unearned grace
And in an act of kindness
Placed her warm hand on Spring’s heart.
in melted handshape
On her tender muslin dress
Was wet, as if with tears.
The pickaxe, slipping from her hand,
Fell clanging on the ground
She sighed a long breath
in the ringing air
And turning to invisible Summer,
Felt the loving warmth
Upon her brow.
She wiped new moisture from her skin
The Spring-time in.
© Sarah de Nordwall
Thursday June 23rd 2005