Six Weeks Remain

Much warmer, yesterday, my feet fell through
The crusted snow, made potholes in the drifts
That now the winter born and bottled dog
Digs in as though it's there the treats are hid.

But walking through the winter wheat bared fields,
The killing fields, for February's frost
Comes marching, willed by bitter winds that cross
Their slight green backs, six weeks of stinging cost
For yesterday's quick kiss so quickly missed.

My dog runs down the north side, dusted ice
Sends him a-sliding! See the startled look?
Six weeks remain of winter, fireside books
And catalogues of seeds, the radio
Runs on as I wash out the maple taps
And think again of spring and giving birth.

Nik Habermel, February 1997