March is leaning hard
into April, though one
can sense the world’s
softening and pressing
on towards the grandeur
of green. Woodlands are
now wind-spun and drink
in the day’s darkness, and
streams are swollen with
snow melt and stirred to
motion by knurls of ice
swept into a confluence
of upland scrim and water,
and even though the boughs
still bear more sun than
leaf, all appears near-
abundant: birds from
away are soon arriving
like wishes finally granted,
and crocuses purple the
earth like paper-weights
holding fast to smaller
pockets of land, while
a flourish of forsythia,
straw-spun yellow, hides
tendrils of maidenhead
fern as they rush to prop
up this translucent bowl
of heaven over-flowing
with a winter’s worth
of half-remembered blue.
