Poem by Herbert Nehrlich
The mist was thick and hung
a giant lacy drape across the meadow,
a lonely bee, to young to have yet stung,
resting to see about the famous shadow
that on this day decides the fate of some.
It was still early and the masses could be seen
waltzing through forests and tall grass to come,
daybreak was yet to wake, it, too was keen
to glimpse the future through the purple heather
of the Tolt River near the town North Bend.
It was the day when one small devil tells what weather
would reign from now and also if the cold would end.
And time went by as is its known and inborn habit,
the church bell tolled the number twelve when it was noon.
Down by the groundhog's lair wandered a rabbit,
an icy wind had started up, would it be rather soon
that Mr. Groundhog would step out to greet them,
reveal his shadow as he did here every year?
What was the hold-up on this day and would he meet them?
Well, let me tell you that this hog did not appear
that day at all, and there was talk that calculations
perhaps were faulty and the date was incorrect,
that no amount of expectations and of patience
would get the furry one to come and to reflect
for all to see what now would be in store.
So they went home to check the calenders and clocks.
Inside the home there was much silence and a snore
where Mr. Groundhog and his clan were wearing socks
and knitted beanies, and the embers were aglow.
When the wife brought up the subject she'd been told
'It is the first time I will say I will not go,
simple reason being it's too bloody cold.'
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