The Cold Winds of March

 The cold winds of March were blowing, when I shrugged into my coat and went out the door. The trees that were small when we moved to this place, are now sixty feet tall and shade the yard.Echoes from my boots rose hard as steel, as they met the frozen ground beneath my feet. I walked to the road alone with that sound, cocooned in the old wool scarf I always wear. So long, so long gone, so long. Last summer’s tawny heads of goldenrod shed their final seeds in the wind as I passed. The asphalt road was lined with blackened snow, our box a silent sentry at its edge. So long, so long gone, so long. A slender card was nestled in its dross, on the printed face, a bright and cheerful light. Black letters on white ground on the reverse

scraped out the worn-out message, “Wish you were here.” So long, gone so long, so long. Returning armful destined for the fire, one hand warm on the card in my coat pocket. Saltwater dropped from the curve of my cheek, as winter’s last icicle, a single tear. I wrote the first stanza of this poem on June 4th, 2023. It stayed nestled in with recordings of the tunes I hear as I walk. I love how hymn tunes are named, so I often give them names according to where I am. I have partially worded and un-worded melodies with titles such as Farmer’s Market, Start Your Coffee First, Always On The Wrong Side of the Door, and Antique Dance. Occasionally, I return to listen to them.

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