March is anything but flat! Spring one day; winter the next. Garden plans stagger drunkenly home. To zip the cowl of the jacket around my neck is to also think about being pulled closer, a hand pressing against my pale throat, with the forefinger and thumb tightening along my jawline. A hitch in my breath. Are you with me?
The road is always here, gathering the intentions of travelers and collecting the last efforts of every season. Soon enough the path will swoon with leggy grasses and lilies maybe. The bridges will cup chattering streams and the water will birth the fascination of those that cannot stay away. Walk with me.
My new shoes are for the greenhouse work. To save my back. To save the world. Electric blue. Beyond. Write it down. Fall in. Stay under with me, okay?
I may be unbearable – my shoulders and back – the flame of my breath – the pace at which I lean in to press on the sore places.
Yet if you tell me you saw the sparrows, the color of branches, lined up on the wire on Main Street
or that you drank whiskey in the hayloft with the ghosts of your grandfather
or you heard my name clinging to sunrise as it spread across the frosted meadow unto your kitchen window pane
then, we would kiss a little
and remove our winter coats
to welcome the unraveling