Quaint Prophet

by Henry Davis Nadig

New England elders never worry
About December’s snowy flurry.
Prophets of all varieties,
They never cater to or please
With sage prognostications of
The whims of things that hang above.
Rather the Yankee sits alone
Beneath the winter monotone,
Content to save his comments till
The New Year shines upon the hill.
No word or sign he gives to warn us
Till the sun’s ‘way into Capricornus;
His reticence then is still unique—
He waits almost till Spring to speak!
When the moon runs high in February
The oldest Yankee yet is chary:
How earth begins to ease the snows.
Perhaps then, just before the Spring,
He’ll tell you what the weather’ll bring,—
He must see how the March wind blows,
But never ask him anything!

Henry Davis Nadig writes the Cheshire Cat column in the Keene Sentinel.