523-529: The Seven Days of March

i

I have not been as kind to you, dear March.

The month is nearly done; and, as of yet,

the well of words for you is very parched.

I’ll give you now. Forgive, though, what you get.

You’ve done no wrong to me. Warmth is your gift—

the very warmth I’ve longed for half a year.

But hearts like mine have never been so swift.

It takes awhile for warmth to feel sincere.

Do not fear, March. I know the souls you’ve saved;

and tho mine is reluctant, it’s, too, yours.

At least there are some who’ve rightly behaved—

who rightly dock wherever March light moors.

We now are free to show ourselves again.

I’ll love it soon—but I do not know when.

ii

Now nights embrace the rogues and wanderers.

You need no coat to see the moon these days.

Benign bugs wake, and boundaries are blurs

between what’s theirs and what our instinct says.

But so far that’s alright. No need to fret

on evenings when outside is twice as good

as any bed or cushion you can get

inside, away from the bug’s neighborhood.

For are we not all wanderers? and share

the bounty of a blesséd evening night?

I’ll give to ants and dragonflies the fare

that I enjoy—March comforts fair requite.

For now, to them, I am part of the scene:

the blessing of warm skin by night serene.

iii

Inside you go, you’ve had your fill of night,

and breathing in the soothing of spring air.

And now your blankets are a glibish sight—

their temperature now matches everywhere.

Their touch affronts no cold, and neither heat,

you’ll neither shiver nor sweat ‘neath them piled.

For now, rest feels as wholesome and complete

as when you were a thoughtless, careless child.

But now you love it new for how it stands

against the mind that, thoughtless, is no more.

To so resemble thoughtless sleep now lands

like rain upon an oasis’ dry shore.

For now. We have a few weeks of this bliss.

The tempered rest of March we will soon miss.

iv

Birds never wake you like they do in March.

If they are louder elsewhen, I don’t know.

But now their songs leap over pine and larch

from taiga down to where your porch plants grow.

For Day is in her hour, and her strength

is lengthening each morning. Birds can tell.

So they, too, stretch their songs to a new length

while strengthening their volume and their swell.

And humans, I think, grew to love the sound

that came with March birds, for their love of Day.

For never, tho the songs my sleep confound,

am I offended at what they may say.

Sing on, Spring-loving birds, wake me too soon,

sing sweet your stories in your sweetest tune.

v

‘Tis now our old wants wake, and wanderlust

compels even the most homebody souls

to seek some strange landscape, to breathe dry dust,

to get the feel of earth beneath our soles.

So sights that sought our ancestry by need

are pleasures to our eyes when we so spy.

I wonder if more joy or less would plead

our gaze, if not with ease we wandered by.

Our vistas: walls inside of mercantiles,

with windows (maybe) out to parking lots.

What cubicles had cavemen, hiking miles

to make their paydays on trail time-punch clocks?

We must go search for beauty when we can:

the staff of life to the poor stone-age man.

vi

With what unprompted love the Sun now rests

upon your shoulder, as a brother’s hand,

who culls the trembling heart’s unwelcome guests

of worries at walking on wild land.

Inviting! This is how it feels out there.

The windows beckon, refracting and warm,

and seem to hint at the sweet-wafting air

that waits outside for you: a fresh air storm.

Throw open wide your doors! Let out the caged

inhabitants of Winter and of Night!

Let all the Day’s enjoyments be engaged

in this, March’s triumphal Sunlit flight!

Now is the time to love to be alive!

Make haste to brink this Sunlit sea—and dive!

vii

Dear March, I loved you quicker than I thought.

It only took a night woken by birds,

a sunlit welcome, and a trailside trot

to love you more than I can say with words.

But I will try, as, try, I have now done,

to tell the rest what treasures I now see.

You have a way to make depression run

away. At least, for me. At least for me.

Love others as you have so tenderly

loved me. Wake them with birds and the Sun-sea.

Make them as hopeful, as relieved and free

as you have done for me. This is my plea,

as, March, I wait to welcome you next year

with a more hopeful heart, and greater cheer.