Nancy: Hard long winters leave the eye hungry for the first red dogwood twig or golden willow branch. By May we go from the subtleties of Ansel Adams to the exuberance of Carnival.
March, April Coming
The winter’s been etchings, charcoal, scratchboard,
white walls, black stove,
grey wool pants,
crows, ravens,
impastos white on white,
edge, line, petroglyph, cuneiform.
It surprised my eye to tears,
yesterday, to see a hare against the grass
and you in your shirt sleeves,
that old shirt, blue.
Alan: But before we can get there, we have to slog through what always seems like the longest month of the year. It’s a time that’s saved by those rare calm, clear nights when the stars are at their brightest.
Climbing March Hill #1
There are times, climbing March Hill,
when Spring seems as far off as Arcturus,
and as alien, and as distant from anything sticky, or sweet,
as that place in the night
we call the Beehive.
“March, April Coming” originally appeared in Living on Salt and Stone (Stone Man Press, 1984)
