The cool air of the floor of the gorge
rises from the river
to the warm heights of the plateau in
the light, raindamp afternoon,
the early spring sun lost behind cloud
for days,
disturbing only the equilibrium of the
mist
drifting through the railing ballisters
of the David Street Bridge
to swirl across the span and caress the
trees of the limestone cliff edges
before the updraft dissipates the
remaining haze into the grey skies
above and beyond the view from my
kitchen window.
There is a tenderness in the mist, an
uplift to yet another
gloomy April forecast, to the chill
that refuses to surrender the season
of the harsh winter, otherwise gone but
for warmth delayed.
Even now, the cold-battered willows,
maples and ash, seem to heal in the
soft, stray breezes,
the scars of the December ice-storm
still everywhere to be seen:
lost limbs, branches; split trunks and
denuded boles
seem glad of the palliative day and the
care of the restorative drizzle.
The human animal carries the idea of
spring postponed
in our bones, but the trees linger at
their own pace,
nurtured by soil and water while they
await the sun of their quickening.
If I can't be like them, I can at least
wait with them, glad of nuanced mercies,
at peace, because they have so far
survived the changing climate as have I,
whether doomed or not, the outcome in
the balance, trouble enough
for another day than this interlude of
quiet.
Jerry Prager 05/01/2014
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