Friday, April 10, 2015

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

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