A poem by Margret “Peggy” S. Condon

The mountain air, this May, is clear and pure.
Translucence etches leaf against the sky.
The trees have never been so green before,
Nor sky so blue–perhaps when earth was
Is such a May a special gift this year?
Or has spring-longing made our eyes more

Who could imagine spring, when winter held
The landscape harshly in its frigid fist?
That any life survived to penetrate
The earth, whose frost line deepend every
Was th’eternal-seeming, swirling snow
An arctic apparition come to stay?

Yet May, a vision deeply-held, did come,
A miracle embodied in the earth,
Surpassing, in her beauty, other years.
Lilacs, heavy-perfumed, weight each bush;
The apple trees, with bloom, profusely
And tiny violets pushed above the ground.

The mountain streams, released from ice
Their silence is broken, make a joyful noise,
In splashing sparkle past the glacial rocks.
The trout are rising in the sunwarmed pools
And deer come down at dusk to drink their fill.
How lovely is their springtime at Buck Hill!

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