Icy and grey in ragged early March.
The sky is not a color but an absence,
Forlorn as music from some dark century.
Rain falls without a thought of stopping,
And underfoot, the yellow brown of wintergrass
Imperceptibly dreams a green beginning.
No crocus or snowdrop has emerged.
The willows by the river are old women
Shivering and naked, no eagles in their branches.
The Kaw runs silty brown, sullen and swollen with inedible fish.
The rain falls, falls
Even the red cars are grey, the dogwalkers
Grim beneath their ponchos
There is a dark, wet light shining everywhere.
The aging bones beneath my flesh cry out
With the knowledge of pain not ending,
Pain raining and falling, cold without end.
— Dixie Lubin