March
March wades in
ankle deep in the melt.
The edges of iron nights rust
turn into pyrite dawns.
Pewter rivers shimmer into silver
fish-tailed coats
as the sunlight rolls down main street
window-shopping.
Of a sudden
nail-bound ribcages loosen,
worn down faces
surface once more like lost coins,
polished a little now and spending smiles.
March is a slow jazz melody
played through a fuzzy neck scarf.
Hands appear shaking fingers
encouraging the early flights
of expansive gestures.
On the roofs of many mouths
voices stretch out
to taste the sweetness of a dripping sky.
The city sweeps itself, in the early light,
puts on a left over makeup,
begins to spackle over
the ice cracked stains of winter.
We quietly celebrate and calculate,
dividing warm days from the chill,
fold away fat reserves
begin to wander into grocery stores
just to marvel at the early ripeness
of greenhouse fruits,
the bright display of plenty to come.
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