the hares are marching, ever marching...

photo by Sarah Lawrence ©

blister on the handle

heavy stock pot

boiling time

thickening grease

marrying steel exhales

a frenzied, fingering

wanting the light spit

watching the wind

sitting through glass

watching people’s faces

as they walk on by

different ways the air

wears against how they breathe

March lions, prying open Suns

feeding on lambs

they always eat lamb

on Good Friday here

with roast pyres burning

rosemary, parsley and

sagacious thyme

the catching cup

flowering daylight

peels the outside first

crocuses, daffodils and

tiny yellow belled Forsythia

parasol tinder and flints

striking the kindling

when it warms

we surrender

to gravity

when our minds

are all invested

in what wades

the waiting

bellows preying

on the way things

seem to be

easy to see

how worn we are

when Winter

is still somewhat

of a wound

and Spring

is its fresh scar

EJR ©