After a Hard Winter

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.

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