the memory of ice

the great weight of the Age of Ice

the calendar says it’s spring,

graying snow piles and ubiquitous patches of white

argue winter’s still here,

I can almost feel the memory

of the thousands of feet of ice

that covered and scoured this land,

land, which with its roundness and marshes,

remembers the great weight of the age of ice,

spring is slow here

as if each potential shoot and flower

fears that old bully,

by noon sun and wind are out and about

as if to speed up the awakening

that already rushes the South toward summer. 

by Henry H. Walker

April 4, ’15