March morning, streets dark with the wet tar gleam
of moisture torn between dew and hoar, the season
wrestling with its better nature, like us all.

Once I thought warmth would come more easily.

But this life staggers toward thaw and draws up short.
Having cut its teeth on ill winds, it trusts only
what came before—bruised ribs, cold like a curled fist.

I wake bitter, taken by a hard frost. I hunger for
what the sun could make me—full-bright,
petal-soft, a woman who believes in mercy.

I’ve prostrated myself before insects caught
on the pavement and ferried them toward the blue bower
of Siberian squill, but shining beetles fat as ten-carat stones
lie shattered, rain-sotted worms still molder,
all my faith washed out with the storm.

I want to watch daffodils blare their brass horn tantara
to a still-grey sky and not take their radiance as reproach;

I, too, could sing despite late snow, fanged gales—
any number of ways I might feign grace, but I have tried
and failed to see silver lacing the ragged clouds.

Through the window light is lifting between
the gapped teeth of houses, streets blushing, a lone robin
hopping madly from branch to bare branch.

Perhaps I’m meant to take this as a sign,
raise my weary head and praise the slow return
of what winter has taken, but already the western sky
is curdling, wet flakes whispering at the panes.

—Zoe Boyer

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