March, you bitch (and April)

wild violets

The sun is shining with almost-spring glee
Not that distant ghost that looks
Good but has no warmth

The temperature is 34, I checked
Put on my boots
The snow is disintegrating
And dirty with sand
What is that black stuff anyhow
The dog doesn’t care

I put on my heavy winter coat
The one with the broken zipper placket
And black streaks on one sleeve
And my scarf
And my hat
And my gloves

Go into the cold air with
The warm sun that says
Come here, come here
Take off your hat
The chill wind ruffles my hair
Not a chance

The sun is closer, yes
Blue sky, but crystalline still
Distant and fragile as if
I get too close it will shatter

At least,
Take off your gloves?
She’s a friend but
No thanks
I’ll see you in May

Early May came
A chill in the air—still
Sometimes a sense of impending doom
That hangs among trees before a storm

What must be owl chicks during my nightly walk with the dog
What must be the scent of newborn bunnies
The little purple flowers breaking through the grass
Lose the gloves and scarf

Leave a Reply