I was able to get out of the neighborhood to head to Pungo for a tour tomorrow. The roads are still icy, but the 4wd had no problem. Melissa wandered the yard after I left and sent a poem she wrote after seeing so many tracks. It makes a nice addition to the blog. I hope you enjoy it.
I walk across the white landscape
as though on pavement,
or the hardwood floor in the living room.
The ice is dusted with snow
so that the each toe of each foot
is perfectly marked.
Only the sharp hooves of the deer
cut through the ice-pavement.
I can see where the squirrel ran
from tree to tree,
and where the rabbit huddled
next to the hollow maple.
I can mark the path of the neighbors cat–
visiting each site where you
so carefully laid out seed for the birds.
And there’s the distinctive trail of the lame crow–
dragging its right leg,
toes curled down and under.
I guess, if we look closely,
and see clearly,
we are able to find
the path that we have followed;
we can trace our footsteps back
to the seed-pile
or the hollow tree.
But it’s the unmarked snow ahead
that both beckons and halts us…
I’ve always loved the thrill of breaking trail–
making the first path
through a sea of white.
I would build roads through the yard as a child,
to the fence-line, and beyond.
But those childhood paths always circled
back to home
and hot chocolate.
The real courage, it seems, comes
when you don’t know what lies ahead;
when the path is hidden,
and home is out of sight.
Where is the joy, then?
Why do I not remember the siren call
of the snowy yard
when life’s choices loom large?
I guess, in the end,
though I wish it was,
life isn’t quite like
playing in the snow.