March Fourth. Nothing special, so far as I know. Not one twig, however, is without its sleeve of snow, its miniature skyline. When the sun comes out, clumps softly thud around the house like distant fireworks. And sudden waterfalls of snow splash over the cedar limbs, leaving them dancing and waving. Dirty boulders pile up alongside the road after the snowplow passes, pin-cushions for pine needles, some of them like sculptures with wonderful shadows and suggestive curves. March. In Costco the displays have already changed to swimsuits and shorts, beach chairs, tents— gone are the blue- or red-and-black checked pseudo-Paul Bunyan shirts, heavy jackets, sweatshirts and snowboards, other paraphernalia of winter. The wheel of commerce is glad to lead us about three months beyond where we are, fill us with desire, tease us into postponing our lives, entice us to desert our island of March 4th, our refuge of the moment. Snowflakes are moths in the headlights. By morning they’ve formed a saddle over the honeysuckle, dusted the driveway. And it is so cold you might not get up if you didn’t have to take a leak. You have to take a leak. And you can only take a leak now, on March 4th. This is my Sunday sermon. Get out of bed and go to the bathroom, praying or cursing—it’s up to you. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you are going to the bathroom by yourself. Thank God.
Straight forward yet poetic. Full of picture perfect images without being either cloying or obscure. Short and to the point. A pleasure to read and experience. Thank you.
Thank you for the comment. I am sure the poet will greatly appreciate it. Any dialogue is always encouraged and appreciated.