an ode to march.

There is something inviting about March. The warmth and the spring peepers, on a good year, tell us to sit still. Or run softly, if we must run. Listening is essential. Taking in, irresistible.

Geese float proudly across the lake and the dog ignores nature’s decree for silence. Now he startles the birds to the sky. Could it be endless—this peace? Not for the geese, I suppose. But if only it could remain still for us. I will it to be endless.

There is something in the smell of March that brings back childhood. I wrote then too. The worst sort of poems. But I imagine the trees appreciated the amateur effort I made on their behalf. No, on another thought, not even the kindness of trees could approve such misplaced words. Oh well. At least I tried.

I had all the intention of being accomplished, and none of the discipline for it.

We like the flowers best. But they have not come yet. The waiting is good too. And maybe the peace will last. There is always that chance.

Our wills play little, or no, role in the progressions of the world. But I find it builds stamina to will things, nonetheless. I am sure the geese appreciate my efforts.

There is something promising about March. Feels as though we could start over here.

Perhaps it will be endless.