March 21

. . . till I feel the earth around the place my head has lain
under winter’s touch, and it crumbles.   Slanted weight of clouds.
Reaching with my head and shoulders past the open crust
dried by spring wind.  Sun.  Tucking through the ground
that has planted cold inside me, made its waiting be my food.
Now I watch the watching dark my light’s long-grown dark makes known.

First collected in Calendars (Tupelo Press, 2003, second edition with CD, 2008)