You think you are safe because it’s April, but don’t forget
the prairie blizzards over a hundred years ago.
You hope there are laws of nature you can rely on,
and pray for faith that it might be so.
Yet think of those children with spring washed hair,
trapped at school miles from home
or anywhere, who in the black iron stove
burned their desks and chairs,
after the sparse supply of winter wood,
(not thinking in April about a coming storm)
was burned too soon,
the blizzard raging on and on.
Think, how some struck out, but perished along the way,
perhaps fifty yards from a snow-packed door, died, and they,
those little children who remained behind …
think how they felt, in their calico frocks,
burning their rulers and books;
(save the well-worn Bible by which they knelt).
Think of them when you sigh your sigh,
after a long cruel winter has dragged slowly by.
Think, as you breathe in the first balm of spring,
letting down your guard, strolling through a green budding glade
toward sun speckled, dappled shade, mottled blue and white,
in recrudescent April light.
— Marilyn Miller Brusca
Marilyn Miller Brusca is a retired nurse living in McCandless. She has been published in America, New People and elsewhere and belongs to a small group of writers, Bards and no Bull.