Small rivulets make crooked paths across streets Recently covered with soiled snow, The vapor arising from the sorrel ground Exudes a steam of musty odors. Across the way with heavy stooping figure A foreign woman digs deftly Into the tenacious loam, Seeking a few edible roots So mindful of the savory relish Of her Homeland.
Spring arrives here without any of the usual cheer. Melting snow trickles in crooked lines across the street, the ground steams, and the air smells musty and damp. Henrietta Clarke's «Spring» begins as a plain, slightly grubby picture of the thaw, the kind of scene that rarely makes it into seasonal poetry.
Then the focus shifts to a single figure across the way: a "foreign woman," bent over, digging into the stubborn soil for edible roots. The speaker never says why she wants them, but the last lines give the answer. She is thinking of the "savory relish" of her Homeland. The poem doesn't state the speaker's feelings outright. Instead, the careful watching suggests quiet sympathy, and perhaps a little awe at how deftly she works. The mood is subdued and tender. Spring here means thaw and mud, but also memory, and the woman's small, patient search turns an ordinary yard into a place where two homes meet.