Winter Gift

Once the seasons were gods, immortal beings

Whose decisions were final. It was up to us

To bring our schedules in line with theirs:

To plant in spring, harvest in fall,

And then spend weekends splitting and stacking

Cords of hardwood that we hoped would last us

To the end of winter. Now the seasons

Seem to be wards of the state, like bison.

Gone the era when a week like this one,

Balmy and bright in mid-December,

Would have been regarded by all—

Except for a few sick with suspicion—

As a gift. Now it seems right to ask

If winter, though barely begun, is spent,

So hesitant it appears, so frail.

Once, those who scouted in March

For the blooms of the first ephemerals

Could expect to be disappointed. Now

They’re successful, and the news is sobering.

Who knows how many generations

Will have to pass, in the best scenario,

Before Thoreau’s notations on early blooming

In the woods near Walden are again reliable?

Eden for them will be a spring

That’s willing to wait its turn while winter

Takes its own good time about departing.

What joy when the earliest trillium,

Earliest trout lily or bluebell,

Appears at last to those who have learned

How to look for a lone example,

One fleck of color in a field of snow.