March always feels to me more like the new year than January. The light, pitching up daily by degrees, has more bounce. And of course with the equinox on the horizon there’s simply more of it around.
And the air, more telling, is almost loose enough to carry taste. Soon the days’ air will tantalize.
And with last year’s embarrassments far enough away to be forgotten, there’s more space to sort out grief. And maybe you need the sun to cross the celestial equator to see far enough to sift free, memories from grief.
If not yet the act, March brings with it the notion to sort things out, wipe off, sweep out, clean up, burn.
A deep thank you to Wendy Morton (Sooke, BC) who sent me this poem and picture a while back, I realize I’ve been saving it until now.
I carry the windsplit branches
of hemlock, balsam, fir;
their filigree of lichen, pitch.
Add blackberry vines and
the heirloom rose that no longer blooms.
Later, I bring paper sunflowers,
full of dust and secrets, old
foolish journals, outdated receipts.
It’s not the memories that will burn here;
but last year’s grief,
all smoke, then ash.