This poem is actually several years old, but it’s a good spring thought. “My friend” in line 5 is Wendell Ganstrom. This sonnet is dedicated to him and what he’s taught me. —gb
We were on snowshoes, trudging on the crust
of March in Colorado. All around
in filtered sunlight, unbeknownst to us,
snow melted where it touched the warming ground.
Don’t rush it, said my friend. Enjoy the day.
Relax. So I slowed up a little bit.
And that was when the weakened snow gave way.
I dropped three feet, and when my snowshoes hit
I rolled back on thick moss and amber sand
and little yellow buttercups. Nearby,
clear water gurgled through this elfin land
hidden beneath its gleaming crystal sky.
It charms me even now remembering
the time I fell through winter into spring.
—August 8, 2003