We tramp the trail in early march
Tendrils of damp branches leaf out overhead
or want to try but earth so slowly thawing underneath
where worms crawl navigating ocean puddle lakes
& stormy skies charcoal curling waves rush overhead
reflect each other on this cold wet sunday afternoon
as drops fall seemingly at every pace
& splash our stretching legs from spongy ground we tread
& count the drops & try to classify
what qualifies as gust or gale or number of raindrops to a shower.
We laugh to keep the rhythm of our march to move
Ahead & stir each other to some wave of dark gray irony.
How spring seems now looming ahead to us, more like the restful
graveyard bed than birthing cradle of any kind
of planted flower in this halflight trudge.
We muse the marches of our younger years & how we’d
hike for days & nights to reach some fantasyed destination place.
& now we’re happy to just see the lights of home flickering ahead
& feel our breath & hear the motor of our beating hearts
& smell the aromatic chicken roasting from the kitchen porch
& count our pulses reassuringly, & glance forgivingly at one another,
Smile briefly, then unwrap, & just come in, &
softly settle slowly down again.