March

I left my matchbox room

with a sudden need for sky—

 

its bright expanse affirms and obscures

my position

on a park bench

among cracked continents of asphalt

and quivering pools of melted snow.

A miniature geography, overlooked

but not irrelevant.

 

A beagle

sniffs at the parched bark of a tree

and howls an impatient song

to the bare branches, wagging

his crooked tail.

 

Solitary chestnuts

dangle defensively.

 

A plane

winks in the open sky

enacting transition and missing

the change.

 

Passengers might notice

a white speck of land, a souvenir

of last season.

 

Down here

the snow is worn away

sculpted by rays of resurrected sun

and dented by forgetful feet.

The ants are intimidated

by these icy canyons

but we crash through the diorama;

blind giants, tiny blind giants.