March, I’ve heard them say, is
the last dead month
and the least dead month.
And it wasn’t even that it was March,
but that we (You and I) were born then,
and that it felt to us an incipience,
and a sign.
It wasn’t March when you began to cry:
not because you loved me
but because the the
tremendous true weight
of loving
fell upon you.
And it was not March when you said
several things that I do not remember
now because I remember more particularly
the heat,
your center to my center.
A warm night
most un-like March,
a warming.
And how I long for winter-time,
not only in that it is long and it will
have been long (for time to dash and freeze at once!)
but because at that time
our heat—our centering—
will have outlived the months and all.