March is mid-season Despite calendar or weatherman; Not the deepest cold Nor the full onslaught of color yet, But brown, and moody A tumultuous whiplash of weather. March is mid-sun An increase in light and longing; Not the strength and length as the year’s zenith Nor the watery and wan winter’s rays, But enough power to course through bare branches, And create patches for the dog’s sprawl.
March is mid-melt The relentless creep of lion and lamb; Not giant piles of white in the driveway Nor the soft broken earth of definite spring, But alternately hard and frozen ground Perfect conditions for potholes and heartache. March is mid-semester That ache of the incomplete; Not the smell of new books, the feel or a new pen Nor the sudden burst of energy at the sight of the end, But the slog through something important, and good And the temptation to give up.
March is mid-sentence A thought and a feeling in process; Not the satisfaction of the fully realized Nor the crest of a swelling wave But the mind’s activity, the heart’s focus Again life’s loves reordered. March is mid-yawn The earth waking and us with it; Not yet bright eyed and bushy tailed Nor dimly attuned to the life within But a growing awareness gentle and slow, An occasional and vigorous shaking off of slumber Blinking into the next season.