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