February in the Piedmont

still fresh and new


February dawns bright and cold in the piedmont
and the first crocus come out as the day warms well,
but for the pine and the cedar
the trees look like they have forgotten summer,









each bud tightly closed
as if the tree can’t stay and keeps its luggage locked,
while we’ve huddled inside the last six weeks
the days have slowly grown longer,
the last few weeks, when the wind’s been up,
poplar seed after seed has twirled down,

I don’t yet feel Spring coming, though it is,
I don’t yet feel my own passing away, though it is,

logic tells me that each decade now is a withdrawal
from an account which can run out anytime,

yet each season that comes still feels fresh and new to me,
each day in the classroom still exciting,
each student special, each journey unique,


while I am still gifted with each new day
and gifted with the heart to care,
the creativity for poem and photo,
the ability to see the other,
and the openness to say it so,
to see the connections and to build them, too,

I joy that I am, that we are,
and that the bud can open,
the miracle can reveal.

by Henry Walker
February 3, ‘09