A Cold Spring Rain

There is nothing like a spring rain
in a grayed, leafless woodland.
The forest floor becoming soft--
with brown mud seizing ev’ry step.
Earth’s hope to remain unblemished.
 
It's what’s owed the callous rains.
A woodland’s annual renewal,
with dividends later paid
in leaves, flowers, berries, and mast.
A promissory note happily written.
 
Blessed silence replaced by
the silver rushing of creeks, their
echo walking deep into the woods--
well beyond the thoughts of summer’s
wanton carefree, barefooted streams.
 
A walking staff, its metal tip
made blunt by the many miles in the woods.
A hunter’s soul reshaped—bettered,
following hounds through these hills.
A deluge readily endured.
 
Ever winter, there are no more
in-the-long-runs remaining.
One last litter to raise. Just one
more legacy story to tell.
Yeah, there’s nothing like a spring rain.


--Joseph Gary Crance

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