Morning sunlight falls on the eventual snow,
and the dog stirs, black upon white, in the maze
of thin spruce, the path tracked and retracked by last night's
dance of hares, and my old legs climb over a fallen trunk.
How many generations long is a long life?
Do we count by decade or some definition
of attitude? Has love a new way of being?
You are, she said, better at questions than answers.
Blown snow, and bright ice, the young trees bend low
under the weight of it. A fox has left fresh tracks.
To be wild is to be hungry, short-lived, cold, wet,
breeding desperately to salvage the species.
Ask the young to explain. The lively black puppy
leads me through the new snow of her world, obeys
though she can outrun me on any footing.
The cold wind sings out in the air all around us.
About this Poem
“Impromptu for the New Year” is taken from David Helwig’s 2015 collection Keeping Late Hours. Find out more about the author on his website.
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