March Sunday

IMG_0411March Sunday

It’s still winter

nearing spring

buried under mounds of snow.

Not knowing what to do

we decide to have brunch

at an old New England tavern.

The drive there is long.

My husband’s soundtrack of Venditti,

Nada and Vasco playing

I feel a headache coming on.

Because the low winter sun reflects off the snow

and pierces my eyes

and my heart.

The drive is so very long and slow

reminding me of so many drives before

on Sundays in March

to visit old relatives

locked away in old New England institutions.

After brunch, I suggest that we visit

the charming bookstore down the street.

I hope we won’t run into her.

She lives in the same town.

What are the chances?

We go.

It is charming

until she walks in the door.

How is everything, she asks

Fine.  Everything is fine.

As fine as anything can be

On a Sunday in March.

March

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March

By: Heather Nanni

March, you roar in like a lion and punch me in the gut.

Yours is a month of cruel contradictions.

The sun, it sits low in the sky and glares harshly enough to burn the eyes.

Yet, it does not produce enough heat to thaw those things

     those things so desperately in need of warmth.

The brown, lifeless grass reveals itself through piles of dirt-stained snow

     an elusive promise of new life trapped beneath dead blades.

You rule with false promise and deception.

During your reign, the white mounds of winter

     once burdensome, yet magical

            melt away

     leaving us with the sad, stark truth of what really lies beneath.