stamp their feet in anticipation,
seeking an escape from the bed of snow.
The mountains fold into the valley like fitted sheets.
The soughing conifers shake their bows free,
spring delayed with no chance of surcease.
The hardwood fence is a bridge for small rodents
to cross the blanket of frozen ground.
The horses pace, each in opposite directions
as if on a treadmill to move the seasons along.
They’ve beaten a trail in the bauchy ice,
eagerly await their hay, but it is late again,
and they worry the fence line as if urging it
to spring into action, knowing they can’t dig down
to the dry grasses buried below snowline.
4/4/24 Molly Fisk Poem a Day
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