Mud Season in Vermont

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by Elizabeth McCarthy

Here country roads become

soft traps of earth and water,

deep rutted rolling paths,

gateways we must pass.

Is it penance for pride?

Driving through purgatory,

where time slogs along with us in mud,

this wet dark thing called Spring.

For arrogance? As if we, ourselves

made these rolling hills of sugar maples,

tapped for their life blood

that later turn to ruby and gold.

As if it is only us who know the beauty

of clear pearl droplets along strings of silk

spun by spiders in the morning dew,

adorning pastures and flowering meadows.

Where brown eyed cows graze as they model

in the summer sun for roaming photographers

who capture the iconic image of rural life

in this land that only we call home.

Now, we are fallen, bogged down

to the rims, held in our place as we hear

the chorus of spring peepers and angels

on tractors heading our way.

[Elizabeth McCarthy is a resident of Walden, and wrote this poem in celebration of National Poetry Month.]

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