W. D. Snodgrass(b. 1926)
Sonnet 10: "The vicious winter finally yields"
T h e vicious winter finally yields
the green winter wheat;
the farmer, tired in the tired fields
he dare not leave will eat.
O n c e more the runs come fresh; prevailing
piglets, stout as jugs,
harry their old sow to the railing
to ease her swollen dugs
and game colts trail the herded mares
that circle the pasture courses;
our seasons bring us back once more
like merry-go-round horses.
With crocus mouths, perennial hungers,
into the park Spring comes;
we roast hot dogs on old coat hangers
and feed the swan bread crumbs,
pay our respects to the peacocks, rabbits,
and leathery Canada goose
who took, last Fall, our tame white habits
and now will not turn loose.
In full regalia, the pheasant cocks
march past their dubious hens;
the p o r c u p i n e and the lean, red fox
trot a r o u n d b a c h e l o r p e n s
and t h e miniature painted train
wails on its oval track:
y o u said, I'm going to Pennsylvania!
and waved. A n d you've c o m e back.
If I loved you, they said, I'd leave
a n d find my o w n affairs.
W e l l , o n c e again this April, we've
c o m e around to the bears;
p u n i s h e d and cared for, b e h i n d bars,
the c o o n s 0 on bread and waterraccoons
stretch thin black fingers after ours.
A n d you are still my daughter.