Snowpack

April 18 2020

It's been a dry winter

an even drier spring.

The snowpack is thin,

and where patches of dead brown grass have emerged

the ground is hard.

In the grudging sun

of a frugal April

the snow cover shrinks

its substance compacts

its surface softens.

And then, at night

turns hard enough to walk on;

a cycle of slow sublimation

through freeze and thaw.

So when it's finally spring

the peepers will not be nearly so loud

the run-off weak,

and stagnant lakes

will be in need of replenishment.

And I fear a summer

of low water and dry wells,

of miserly rivers

down to their beds.

But for now,

in a late spring

in the thirsty soil

the first blooms will struggle,

flowering early

then fast to seed.

So the plants will be small and mean

but at least they will not fail,

expending their last

to pass on their genes.

Either that, or rain;

a steady downpour

day after day,

when the rivers will swell

and the soil will drink

and time-tested crocuses flourish.

Because life depends on water,

as does spring

on the winter before.

As we live on the margin

and must reckon with factors

beyond our control.

So I look up

and scan the sky for storms.

Would even pray, if I believed in its power;

but for now, all I can do

is wait and hope.