Sometimes I think forecasts are invented to keep us from despairing. Day follows day with slush, mud and driving rain, and there is this carrot dangled in front of the jackass, to keep it trudging on. Not that the warm, sunny weather ever actually materializes.
It seems that even if the sun should shine, there is such a residue of slush and mud and glop it will take forever to dry.
And when a sand driveway, which had been firm for forty years, mysteriously turns into quicksand that swallows your car, even your free time abruptly wears chains.
OK, Mr. Optimist, let’s see you talk your way out of this:
As I rush through the rain from car to door
I pause to feel the icy needles pelt
And am glad I don’t work in rain any more.
When young I rejoiced and, hot-blooded, felt
Like dancing in the wet. You can forget
Such antics now. I slam shut the front door
And yearn for May.
But it seems I am met
By delay. Treasure’s on hold. Tomorrow
Never comes. Heaven’s not this side of death.
Or do I forget what I knew? Sweet sorrow
Brimmed youth, but beauty took away my breath.
It is here, the beauty squinted eyes miss.
Come open these old, tired eyes with your kiss.
The sun eventually did come out, and so did the car:
It took nearly four hours. I managed to keep myself interested because I was curious about what caused the driveway to become like what men out on clam-flats in Maine called a “honey pot”, which was a soupy quicksand of clay covered by a rubbery skin of harder, sun-baked clay.
What it was was a spring. As I shoveled I freed it, and water came right up to the surface. After attempting to bail and then work, bail and then work, I hit upon building a diversion channel. In some ways it was sort of fun to make rivers in the mud like a small boy, which shows you that it may be possible to make misery be merriment.