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.

Recent Posts

See All

for nicolle

We listened and we heard in the space between us, a small garden with many new things: curving meridians and underworlds and iridescent dreams, shoulders to chest like a liturgy. One is when we are to


There are moments I remember that even the schools of crickets are multitudinous, and that waiting for the rain makes the sun too bright. I discover new shapes every day: green ones, gold ones, secret


Conversations with Jesus on the front porch. So many worries. That's true, he says. Everything moving by things I can't see. But perhaps, he says, you can. And under it all? You'll remember, he says.