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.
Beautiful, Jen. You capture mid-March (up north) perfectly!!
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SO good to hear from you. Your poem was especially helpful for me to reconnect with all the springs of my lifetime, til we moved to FL. We are “mid”, too, sometimes Thank you! Karen
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Thanks, Mom! Now I’ll have to ponder what March is like in paradise 😊🌴☀️