The Laughter of Pan
This poem was written late last night after the weather began to change dramatically. This morning, there is indeed a dusting of snow on the ground. We are in the long trail of a storm which has affected parts of the both the US and Canada.
I hear the chuckle of old Pan tonight;
He's laughing from the shelter of the woods
As wind swings northward and the threat of snow
Breathes angrily against my tightened lips.
This morning spring was here in all her grace,
And even now the vole's not gone to earth,
The birds fly much as usual, go to sleep
No doubt still muttering about the chill;
The skunk perhaps has sheltered 'neath the porch,
The rain-filled spring still tumbles down the slope,
Tomorrow may bring snow on iris blooms.
But wind cares not at all, nor yet old Pan,
He of the wool-curled flank and cloven foot.
I will not scold his laughter; I should like
To watch him dance the storm through, underneath
The new leaves of a hundred trees--no doubt
Somewhat apologetic, then a laugh
Again as north wind dances with him there.
All well, he will not meet me. Furtive, spry,
He'll foot it to his own sweet pipes and drum,
And I will slip inside and wrap up warm
And wait the swift returning of the spring.