IT’S NOT OVER ‘TIL IT’S OVER
April snowstorm, squalling May Day, mayday
quashed in the wind.
Yellow spikes of forsythia,
forced inside, are the only ones spared.
Daffodils, in full bloom on my garden flag
fly horizontal, snap furiously.
Round robin, puffed up twice its size
keeps warm huddled in the shrubs–
a basketry of bare branches near the house.
He hunkers down, with down parted by
the wind gusting.
Poor thing.
The day before, eager to hasten the season,
nudge new growth to greening,
I finger raked the damp mulch aside–
exposed a caterpillar, tightly curled,
a cadaverous ball with pale, translucent skin–
out cold on a knob of ice. Now,
I feel for the little leaves, trembling.
Winter’s last blast–though
Spring shall win out,
robins hop-rock in the lovesome sun,
daffodils break ground and buddy up.
Caterpillars will stretch and color as
melting snows trickle down to the pond,
and the day–all day–gladdening day
lasts longer.
Sally Ann Miller
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