I
In the chill early evening
cars dodge potholes and frost heaves
dragging their tails home
behind burnt-out headlights
in March.
House pets do the in and out dance
at the doors, after all day asleep.
Stones sit submerged in newly heated holes.
They melt craters in the blank face of mud
over everything-
in March.
Rime ice releases its crystalline clutch.
Feet sound like molars pulled out of a jaw.
Angular shards yield to the roundness of footprints.
Boots meet earth in a sloppy kiss,
and walking becomes a compensatory ice polka.
Trees shed joints, arms, bark
eased away by emerging calyx.
Pushing and shoving makes its own music
in March.
New again
Old still
hard soft
March.

II

We drive together in your cosy car cocoon

through this rich violent nightscape

to see the pale beams of the lighthouse.

finger the fog.

Five streams of light flow out to the sea

answered by the gutteral groans of foghorns

at the bay's entrance.

I turn to you, vibrating with the struggle

between light and dark

winter and spring

beginning and ending

love and loss

in March-

To find you standing in silence

bewitched by the light cast so gatheringly

over the noisy sea.

We hold the brightness between us

on our way home,

to curl toward one another

in the warm dry bed.

My fingers sing songs of spring over your back.

The peace of beginning

settles over us.

The sharp anxiousness of new

melts like the wet ice outside.

I love loving you

in this now, this new,

in March.