March

in March the waiting for spring
insists loses patience
antelopes the heart over
its gates of knowing. I don't recall
my first kiss on days like this only
my last still darning my sternum
still silencing the instructions
between my ears. the grass is wise
jacketed in seeds withholds
the way monks robe
themselves to prevent their
flesh from burning the Word
Everlasting into the eyes of
the unready. everything that has
not arrived is holy. promises are
better than gold, gold is garbage.
listen. birds are telegraph signals
announcing the Guest. the Merrimack
cracks its icy knuckles like a carpenter
eyeing wood. I believe in they who
eat dirt and breathe starlings. all the
Alzheimer's patients of my heart one
by one have long wandered off. it
is a kind of sadness. now to call
them home stroke their silver
hair and listen to them the way
loneliness listens to lost airmen. we are
all slowly abandoning reason to be
wise like the grass. when we love
ourselves the waiting shuts and
and a new kiss tulips open our hearts.