Seasonal nostalgia

For those of us who write poetry as a way to express what we're feeling, nostalgia is a handy treasure chest. We should, though, make sure we have the light on when we rummage through it and we should wear a head torch too so we can see exactly what our fingers are poking into. Someone might have tossed a knife or a mousetrap into the chest or thrown in an old plate that broke when it landed inside. Maybe we were the ones doing the throwing and the tossing and have only ourselves to blame when we cut ourselves.

One of the things I get nostalgic about is the passing of the seasons. I'm always sad when the snow goes and I always miss the sound of the stream behind my house when it freezes over. Here's a little, wistful poem on this sort of theme.


I love to see the ground again,
though I love the snow as well.
I stop and stop and lay my hands
on copper needles warm
from light that lasts.

I gently press the tiny mosses
rebounding green each boreal year.
I dip my finger in a clump
of crystal snow, small as my boot,
that will be gone tomorrow.