Spring Peepers at 39 Degrees

There is nothing visible to clue them in,
No sunlight, flowers, or flush of leaves,
Yet the frogs cry out from pools and puddles
Peeping up to find a mate, start life afresh
In unthought expectation of spring.
In the fog and cold rain that pelts my face—
Drops at maximum density—
Their song knows embodied what I know but
Do not act upon. Winter’s scarcity ends,
Warmth returns, and plans are now called for
To welcome the abundance of summer.

In Praise of Ice

Little in Creation fascinates like ice.
Cold and hard, yet exuding
Action and personality like the liquid it was and will be.
Temporal, temperamental, silently withdrawing
Quickly as it forms.

In innumerable phases, shaped by circumstance and
Constantly thereby changed. At turns
Brutal, beautiful, dreary, delicate, insulating, insufferable.
On it projected frustration, need, and wonder.
Warmth is blessed, but to be icy is no shame.


Original photographs by the proprietor.