Wallace Gould

From “In Maine”

SOMETHING is happening, at last,

now that the snowflakes are falling.

Something is happening.

It has been too long that nothing has happened.

The poor old year has been a bore.

She has been unkempt.

She has worn a faded calico dress too ragged for repair.

She has murmured of doom.

She has crooned of former profusions

of silk brocades,

rare perfumes,

or lovely lusts.

I come to the forests.

Even now the forests are green and black,

but within them,

instead of the tawn of the spills,

there is the white of the snowflakes.

I come to the fields.

Even now the fields are tawny,

but across them there are streaks of white—

the white of the snowflakes on the frozen brooks.

I look at the skies.

Even now the skies are gray,

but the gray of the skies is enlivened with streaming white—

the white of the snowflakes.

The snowflakes are falling,

to circle,

or wander,

or dart,

or float,

all like children at play—

like desperate children

awaiting the sound of the school bell.

Something is happening, at last,

now that the snowflakes are falling.