I don’t know whether to ride
my mower or push my snow-blower.
Given what April brings to us.
A drift, a daffodil. A decision
better left to not deciding.
Letting the sun do what it will
by the end of the afternoon.
Letting the grass stick through.
Letting the blades decide to mow
or throw the snow away
from my driveway onto the road.
Back into the field.
Where it’s sure to disappear,
as sure as May will arrive.
Whether or not the mercury inches
above freezing.
And the engines in my garage
can’t think of not turning over.
Coughing up smoke.
Clearing their throats of oil.
Making a fresh start to
whatever season this is.
In Vermont, the one
weather we can count on.
Making mud of our lives.
If we’ve taken off our winter
tires. Before it’s time
to take off our winter tires.
Time, gentlemen and women,
to start our engines.
Don’t be surprised when I say
from here in Daytona.
By the track. By the beach.
Where I can plow the sand
with my feet.
Cut some grass, if I feel like it.
Gary Margolis, Cornwall Town Poet
