03/10/2022
Poetry by Daphne Solá
Icicles slowly begin to drip
on the south side of the house
while the frozen stalactites
on the north side,
never knowing the touch of sun
simply hang and wait.
But that first melting
is a jolt that makes an imp
spring out of his box . . .
how apt . . . the imp is Spring,
a wicked game-player
who has us rejoice at the sight
of snowdrops blooming
and despair at the snow
that will cover them,
And we are made aware
each morning
of the sun moving in an arc
from the north to the south side
of the pond,
there it is again,
northeast to southwest,
a reminder
that we need to know
where we stand in the world, . . .
and savor the luck to be alive in it.
I’m just glad
to wake each morning
in a state of anticipation,
where there is no longer space
for frozen hopes,
I feel my sap rise, and
for all its foxy jumping
in and out of the box,
not trade Spring
for any other season of the year.
