Poem: "Thaw" by Pamela Harrison
On a March Monday so mild
the season’s song birds sing,
she puts on her galoshes and passes down
on old crusted snow to the hollow.
Leaving the path, the sun-bathed bowl
of meadow and the noisy road
where trucks and cars rush past,
she steps into the stand of pines
like the deer that sleeps beneath its boughs.
Standing still in the quiet cover,
awakening to the grove’s hidden life,
she soon hears the invisible stream.
Threading toward it through the thawing,
slipping, catching a bare branch,
she follows the sound down to a pool
where silver trickles over ice. There,
she lies down on a bed of fallen needles
and gazes up though the intricate
etchings of bare limbs toward the green-
needled height. She thinks
maybe she’ll make a little room there
above the rusted floor, clearing
some space, simplified and chaste.
For now, it’s enough to rest a while
near the whispering, hearing again
the world’s pulse freed from loss.
Pamela Harrison reads "Thaw"