March
       

The month of raw,
fingers and thoughts
crueler than. April.

Even when the edge of the wind
which swings through the limbs
of every living thing is softened by daffodils,

it remains the month of cold promises.
The teeth of a smile in the sap.

And March whipped you away,
cries still in the doorway of January,
where they said, "terminal."

Even now its hinges swing and creak,
speak your name, tease
as if you could come back.

The wind pretends to be a breeze undoing your hair,
your nightdress peeling away,

your brush full of hairs lying idle now,
the dreams of your dressing table,
your creams and perfumes cast aside.

And outside the daffodils and the wind again
getting in through the timberframe.

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Copyright © 2011 Mary Madec All rights reserved
from In Other Words
Salmon Poetry
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission