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.]
