Groundhog Poem by Kate Richardson

In February, we find it lying motionless
In full sunlight. With no shadow for prediction,
We think it is dying and leave it alone.

The next day it remains, eyes open,
Breathing steadier, trying to move.
Again, we back away.

We read the poems: Kumin and Stafford,
Know their images of life and death.
But miss the obvious, the necessary.

Days before, machines had arrived,
Broke up an old shed and hauled it away.
The groundhog, wrenched from dark and rest
Crept from its burrow under the building.

Weighed down by the shroud
Of hibernation, it is stuck,
Its calendar tattered:
Two months torn out and erased,
Replaced by a false spring demanding resurrection.

On the third day, the groundhog
Rolls the weight of its body
Onto shaky legs and
Crosses into an unfamiliar season.