March by Gail Holst-Warhaft



Maybe age makes me reluctant

to speed the guest who always overstays

but March reminds me Iím a lover

of winter. You can have Palm Beach,

and pretty places old people go to

warm themselves before they die.

Give me this silent, stringent season,

the only feet in the snow ours

or an unseen foxís, the only birds

that brave the sky, hawk and crow.


How could I have missed this,

not noticed the rough games

crows play with the wind, the way

water curdles under ice

in slowed motion? Why did I huddle

by a fire oblivious to the mottled fire

a low sun lights on the red pine.

Maybe Iíve learned to like austerity

or reached an age when all guests

are parting and I dread to speed them on.







© 2005-2009 Per Contra: The International Journal of the Arts, Literature and Ideas

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Gail Holst-Warhaft

Spring 2009 Poetry