March Breakdown
(sometime back in the 90s with three little boys at home)
The way I remember it,
March wasn’t like this.
Fields were soggy yellow sponges
that could suck the boot
right off your foot.
Ditches meant certain soakers,
melting snow poured
into sewer grates,
water trickled, dripped,
flowed, tumbled towards spring,
and so did we,
stamping, tramping,
sloshing through slush
in the mild March air.
I don’t remember
this tenacious crust
of snow and ice
encasing us in winter
far too long,
trapping us all indoors
like cryogenic experiments,
to stare at flickering screens,
to bicker and bitch
and wonder how
one week in March
could possibly
translate into
so many
dragging
days.
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