Early Spring
Aug 1 2009


Maybe it was me
sleep-walking through daylight,
going slow, like a man underwater —
lead weights
tied to his feet,
the sound of air
moving mechanically
in and out.

The sky was always grey, it seems;
everything monotone,
stone-cold after dark.
There was an inch of slush
top layer frozen,
dirty snow
piled too high on street corners,
abandoned cars
turned into blocks of Styrofoam.
Days were short
like peering through a letter-slot,
impervious night
blocking the way.

I wore a red goose-down parka,
faded, water-stained —
the down, mostly thinning-out,
the zipper sticking
half-way up.
The boots were good enough,
but my feet always felt cold, or wet
or both.

When spring came
I remembered nothing about that winter.
So when I think of it now
I fill in the blanks,
with hay-rides, and carolling
and skating hand-in-hand.

But the early spring
turned out to be false
— another promise, broken.
It snowed in June.
In July, a killing frost.



I heard the Environment Canada weather "guru" -- Dave Philips -- say we've had 8 solid months of below average temperatures, confirming my strong impression it's been unseasonably cold for far too long. It's summer, but it feels like fall. We've had a week of cold and grey and driving rain. The lake is too cold to swim comfortably, even in a wet suit. Needless to say, all that gave rise to a very bleak poem. I can't explain why it's largely set in winter; that's just what came to me.

I like it: it's an atmospheric poem that I think says just enough. I like the unresolved allusion to some deeply painful event. I like that it's left to the reader to fill in the back story, however he wishes. It's hard for me to tell if this works (because I know what's coming!), but I like the surprise at the end: how it momentarily re-creates that feeling of hope; then abruptly pulls the rug out.