poetry, v. 3 n. 10, November/December 2001, © 1993 by Doreen Fitzgerald

Wintering Over at Spinach Creek

A tiny beast, the vole, goes about this business of life
so low to the ground, etching a delicate trail
in the snow. My own thick boots,
the lugs I wear for traction on the steep slope,
leave a different mark.

The dahlias, frozen in their summer bed,
roots undug, will never bloom again.
Sacrificed by my neglect,
they bloom as separate humps of snow.
Food for the vole, perhaps, on February 3.

Up in the house, in unison,
the green plants lean toward the pale sun
already low above the facing dome.
My own ear strains toward the first faint sound
of water moving under the earthbound snow.

The vole just goes where he always goes,
burrowing,
burrowing through a frozen maze,
using to the best effect
this clean and muffled arctic world.

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