March

now everyday advances and nothing retards,
no drift over blunt shoots stalls,
nor is the sky darkened with squalls
that threaten with white a yellow yard.
When was there snow that would guard
my quiet? Two short storms that raised no sail to haul.
The ground's been barren. No candid blanket palls
its winter dreams with melancholy crystal.
I cannot enter Spring by so straight a route.
All streams here are too warm for keeping ice.
Ground locked and unlocked, a poor warder that fooled
with secrets, flustered them out of bulbs. Christ could
rise who had a cave and hell. Brute
me with granite, clack a grate of frost right
at my door. Clouds will drop their loot,
the fire steam, an icicle grow longer than an afternoon,
drafts gang up on candles, sap break old pines,
and a defeated sun rest its chin on my lintel
before I'll come out ready at last for moist winds.

Bob Elmendorf