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In March exact shadows on snow,

blue in the spectrum overtakes lavender;

the pillows of vapor at a slow bedroom gallop.


Up, up, the whistle pierces; the burn

of one and one, couples the rising

yearn, twin twine, dare,

and thickening flash in shoals.


Even deep-rooted conifers,

their green wax fangs open,

hustling in the languorous swells.


— Ruth Stone

“Spring Equinox Full Moon”



I breathe to you

love in the south of the many

months of spring

hibiscus in dark hair water

at the source

shadows glistening to hips

thighs slender sunset shining shores


fingers rolled fragrant leaves

presence of deep woods

earth veiled in green drift

that hides running

of small airs

untraceable fine sounds

passing as on a face

feet first drops of rain on a mountain

hands greeting flowers

holden stolen flowers


closed eyes of every creature

sepia and amber days


of tall tree

arms’ glide

voice of rain forests

birds in tree heights

throat of palm


wrist of palm

palm of palm

morsel breasts

melon navel waist of high waterfall

surf laughter face hearing music

body of flight




away from you on a corner of the earth

I want to think for six hours of your hair

which is the invention of singing

daughter of islands

born in the flood of the fish harvest

I see long mornings

lying on your hair

I remember looking for you


— W. S. Merwin


* * *



“A Death in March”

broken branch


Even so the Spring goes forward.

The rind of the trees weepy with sap. No spigot to carry it off.

From here to the other side, ice is motley. The river’s current

expression: a stutter of ice cakes on the shore. Fret of spume.

Some days, though, we waken to snow,

fugacious erasure of mud and broken branches.

We feel the setback. Want the spectacular squalor

of Spring: its colourless smear. There’s no word for that.

For snow falling, fugue slow, through fog. Earth and air

unable to settle what it’s to be. Now is after. Or, ahead?

Interrugnum: Its beauty is brutal. A raw wind through bereft.


— Anne Compton

“Sunny Day in March”

sunny march


Even the weathercock turns with the sun on such a day.

It must be spring. Outside the cellar wall the cat

has found himself shelter. He’s asleep, no doubt,

but his fur is well puffed up and his paws

well tucked under. A fly has been tempted out

from a crack in the warm plank wall — starts

buzzing. Soon stiffens. It’s too cold.


— Olav H. Hauge

translated from the Norwegian by Robin Fulton

March morning unlike others


march morning


Blue haze. Bees hanging in the air at the hive-mouth.

Crawling in prone stupor of sun

On the hive-lip. Snowdrops. Two buzzards,

Still-wings, each

Magnetized to the other,

Float orbits.

Cattle standing warm. Lit, happy stillness.

A raven, under the hill,

Coughing among bare oaks.

Aircraft, elated, splitting blue.

Leisure to stand. The knee-deep mud at the trough

Stiffening. Lambs freed to be foolish.


The earth invalid, dropsied, bruised, wheeled

Out into the sun,

After the frightful operation.

She lies back, wounds undressed to the sun,

To be healed,

Sheltered from the sneapy chill creeping North wind,

Leans back, eyes closed, exhausted, smiling

Into the sun. Perhaps dozing a little.

While we sit, and smile, and wait, and know

She is not going to die.


— Ted Hughes

March Snow” – Promote Yourself


 march snow


There is something hopeful about March,

something benevolent about the light,


and yet wherever I look snow

has fallen or is about to fall, and the cold


is so unexpected, so harsh,

that even the spider lily blooming


on the windowsill seems no more

than another promise, soon to be broken.


It is like a lover who speaks

the passionate language of fidelity, but


when you look for him, there he is

in the arms of winter.


— Linda Pastan

March Hare

And she spotted the blur at once.
Standing stock still
the spaniel took a stance
of anticipation.
One single solitary hare
jinked and swerved to the
tune of a month’s madness;
I attempted to restrain the
anxious beast but
she was gone, too strong;
a gundog unleashed,
Instincts released,
quarry insight,
on comes the night.
Two shadows:
weaving amongst grasslands,
the hare all speed,
the spaniel all duty;
I view the spectacle
with admiration;
beauty and nature
as one;
as hundreds of years ago.
The spaniel stops in disgust,
snorting rapidly;
the hare turns, I’m
sure he laughs,
and takes a bow:
the spaniel and I depart:
silhouettes showered by moon dust.
 Stepthen  Holloway
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