Late Winter
       

It's almost spring, but cold. This morning
I slipped on ice crossing the bridge over the slough—

for the first time in months I hadn't reached for
the railing. The days grow longer, lighter. I walk

down to the mailbox at 5:30 and five deer are grazing
near the neighbor's fenced garden, some yearlings

among them. They look up and drift farther down
the hill, but the fifth approaches, stops and watches

until I open, then close, the mailbox and walk back up
the road. When I turn back to look, the doe is still

watching. Along the road, where once I planted irises
in too little sun, the hellebore are blooming and

the scent of daphne precedes its bloom. Yesterday,
Bill mentioned an essay he'd read about the life one

didn't live but is aware of having missed. I don't think
much about the life I might have had, but remember

the short film we watched about Sicilian miners descending
two by two deep into the earth each day, then, shirtless,

walking through a warren of barely lit paths to drill
and chip sulfur from the cave walls while above them

the life of the village, men in fields, women doing laundry,
a donkey waiting with its cart, goes on without them.

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Copyright © 2022 Maxine Scates All rights reserved
from Copper Nickel
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission