it is such a March as we haven’t had
in a decade. mothball snow
continues, the sun chilly, sky overcast
for weeks at a time. this a.m.
a tabby across the road yowled;
the very echo of the dream
I can’t let go from last night.
in that moment, when I heard her,
the particles of light entangled
in my soul loosed just enough
to catch me at a solid memory of a damp, green
Spring. the release, like the click of the first key
on a french horn playing a hollow
perfect F, got me through the pasttimes
I engage in: telephone calls and Facebook,
the click to click of i-stories on the web.
here I am at the window’s sill
of tired and the only thing to complain of
is nostalgia, meet this Thurday. when I was ten
I went to Lauds, Vespers, and Compline each day
for twenty-four days; I had to eat toast
before Lauds so I wouldn’t faint on the kneelers.
then I was undramatic and knew my habit
of falling out had something to do
with my rabbit metabolism.
today it seems it might’ve been the Ghost
tapping from between my ribs to remind me
of the sufferings of the day, and joy
undreamed of: dawn fading like a melody
in a car going by.