The black wind of March awakens me
    Not the bright and powerless sun
    Or the persistent song of the mockingbird
    Guarding a nest still empty
    Or rather a nesting place
    With only the anticipation of twigs and straw

    But in the last black hours of the Lenten season
    The wind's cold groans call me forth
    Death and birth being so well connected
    To turn the living soil
    And bury seeds rising already
    In my imagination bright
    Green in the early shadows


Copyright © Cy Dillon, 2001.  All Rights Reserved.