A Nagging Thaw

And now, almost a week later and 40 degrees warmer:


Crawling Out the Window
by Tom Hennen

When water starts to run, winds come to the sky
carrying parts of Canada, and the house is filled
with the scent of dead grass thawing. When spring
comes on the continental divide, the snowbanks
are broken in two and half fall south and half fall
north. It’s the Gulf of Mexico or Hudson Bay, one
or the other for the snow, the dirt, the grass, the
animals and me. The Minnesota prairie has never
heard of free will. It asks you, quietly at first, to
accept and even love your fate. You find out that
if you fall south, life will be easy, like warm rain.
You wake up with an outgoing personality and a
knack for business. The river carries you. You float
easily and are a good swimmer. But if you fall north
while daydreaming, you never quite get your foot-
ing back again. You will spend most of your time
looking toward yourself and see nothing but holes.
There will be gaps in your memory and you won’t
be able to earn a living. You always point north
like a compass. You always have to travel on foot
against the wind. You always think things might
get better. You watch the geese and are sure you can fly.

(Tom Hennen was born in Morris and grew up on farms in western Minnesota. He has worked as a laborer, migrant bean-picker, and stagehand, and for many years he was employed by the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources and the United States Fish and Wildlife Service. He is the author of Crawling Out the Window, Looking into the Weather, and Love for Other Things: New and Selected Poems.)