Forward, past the Ides of March–
boots pack soil and cake themselves.
Robins hop for worms again,
moist soil clinging to their beaks.
Seedlings punch their garden womb,
drink the sun, spread their roots.
There is death among us now,
it never shrinks or fades.
But right this minute,
are warming their wings
to take to the sky
and leave their shadows on the ground,
where the reaper keeps what he sows.
Green candle, flicker brightly
on the third eve of Crow’s moon.
Herald the return of geese,
the steady lengthening of sky.
Prayers, stay golden soft.
Murmur liquid-thin and
watchful melodies to echo
through the rooms in this house.
The African violets stir;
the seed of this body stretches
from the navel. Now it sleeps.
Now it is alert, coiled, craving
release. Windows beckon light, and
through them infant tendrils dream of
their launch to the sun, of wrapping
themselves around the heat of waiting days.