Bothering

New snow on the hill across the valley

And look, there is a mist above the orchard.

If we were to leave our coffees

To start the cold car and drive across the valley,

If we parked far up the snowbound orchard road

And walked from there into the high meadow,

By then, wouldn't the mist have vanished?

So why bother?

How would one know

That the vanishing mist left behind

A paradise of rime frost,

Bedecking remnants of goldenrod

And copses of honeysuckle

With delicate crystals

Catching the first rays of the rising sun.

Unless one bothered,

And we did - bother.