by Thomas Thurman
The autumn leaves an ill-defined unease
that (while the summer flourished) I’d ignored.
The litany begins. We can’t afford
the oil we need to buy before the freeze;
they’ve forecast snow: we need to fix the tiles
that blew away before the summer came,
fit plastic shrouds on every window-frame;
there isn’t any salt in stock for miles.
Yet soon I’ll wake, and March will fall behind,
and though the winter’s dark was death, it’s done,
as every tree salutes the sudden sun
with leaves that bring the healing of my mind:
a spring to clean away the winter’s dust.
My will returns. May will return. It must.
Thomas is from Cambridge, but moved to Philadelphia when he met and married his muse.