Changing Times

In my book spring starts on March 1. I’m always impatient for winter to end by this time, though I like cold weather. Everything has its time and by now I am hoping for a change. Daffodils are pushing  up in sheltered places, and that means the season is shifting, though maybe a little reluctantly.

Gone On Too Long

Feet in thick-soled winter shoes
repeating that heel-toe scrape
scuffing along the sidewalk
I move.
Raw cold, a fast-moving cloud day, windy March the first
spring time
sky sharp and clear, not overcast, not pressing down on us
like it does when it’s full of snow
but that wind cuts right through a person-
Christmas wreath on the door of that house I’m passing
I notice the sparkly gold bow flapping in the wind
can sparkly gold fabric, like that stuff, can it fade?
because I think that bow has dimmed quite a bit since December
and that wreath needs to come down
now that it’s spring-
Walking shoulders up hunched against the wind
stepping down into street to cross
considering one foot, then the other,
because there’s some gravel washed up
from the storms and the snow plows
pushing along
right here against the curb-
My hand in my pocket goes to that new hole
and I remember
I put my arm through a tear in the sleeve lining yesterday
this coat needs repair
but I’m going to hold off
surely I won’t be wearing it too much longer
because it’s spring
kind of a hopeless spring right now, though

"March Rainstorm"collage I made this piece more than 10 years ago. These houses stood at the bottom of the hill on my street and I looked over the fence into their back yards on a stormy day.

“March Rainstorm”
collage
I made this piece more than 10 years ago. These houses stood at the bottom of the hill on my street and I looked over the fence into their back yards on a stormy day.

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4 thoughts on “Changing Times

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