Thaw II


My dog has spring fever.
I plod away my oversleep
In morning mist,
Gulping warm, gentle air
That doesn’t snap back.
Tiny drops
Hang silently mid-air;
I know it’s raining
Only from the steady gurgle of run-off.
With each clomp of my rubber soles
I slip back
On the winter’s mini-glaciers,
Glistening with fresh melt,
Or aim for narrow mud-islands
And sink in soft ooze.
Hilary splashes deliberately
In puddles:
Disbelieving the water
That was hard but yesterday,
She noses, burrows,
And settles in fluid heaven,
Only to compromise
Seconds later
By a second bath in slush.
Beard caked with ice,
Belly dripping water, she prances
—the March lion
in April showers.

Lawrence Swamp, March 8, 1980

Age caught up with Hilary, but not her love of life.