I am the snow
In the rains of the March;
The returning flocks to an icy home
—Too bitter to advance, yet too far to return;
The million insect in the fleeing sun
—At blissful risk from a sudden burn.
I emerged (once more) from a shattered winter
My frozen core would never splinter
By grace of storms that built me up
From many unrealized sunny days
To be a summit of hearts dismayed
And from then, here, I stayed.
These warming days retract their touch
As I refuse to melt as much
As kindred of the winter, all
Who grew with me in circumstance.
Yet, this March has in me bred
(Perhaps then, too, I’m in full their kindred)
A space in me, a hole I melt
Dripping with that Spring Emotion
I forgot I ever felt.
Beautiful warms come kissing me
I fear until I’ll wither completely
And lose this body to a formless drop
Evaporating discreetly.
Tho’ the winter from which I’m born
And the ends of rejection I still bear in scorn
I can not go to a new loving Spring
Nor pray to a Winter, more snow to bring
For one only feeds frozen past miseries
The other, this essence, too quick to parch,
Will  do just the same as these
Rains of the March.