By Janie Adams
Featured in Caesura 2020: Imago
Ode To March
March, how do you see yourself?
Do you grimace throughout your sequestered existence
When your bleak clouds hover, coating the days
In gloom and tedium?
Do you tap your foot impatiently
As your thirty-one days dawdle by,
Slowly extracting the remaining remnants
Of the New Year’s impetus?
I wonder if your head hangs when you
Dress yourself in the morning – if you yearn for
June’s floral patterns or October’s orange hues
As you pull your beige, tattered sweater
Over your head.
I imagine you hear the grumbles and laments
Of tellurians rise up from your
Brisk winds and slippery sidewalks,
Of men cursing as they step in your
Slush on the side of the road,
And of children whining as they bundle up
For school for the hundredth time.
I wonder if you notice the layers of balms and lotions
Smeared onto chapped skin in a feeble attempt
To quench your drought,
Or the guzzled cups of tea to fend off
Your midwinter-spring cold.
Do you feel guilty, sending us an apology note
In the form of a glimpse of sun rays or the
Timid notes of a few songbirds?
Do you bask in your dismal state,
Wallowing in an excess of grayness,
Believing yourself to be useless and burdensome?
Because, oh March, you are not.
You are your own season,
Perched between time,
Eternal from your vast sunrises to stark sunsets.
Your winds bring supernatural knowledge
Of reveries yet to come.
The reflections that peer up from your
Stagnant puddles reveal the slightest lusters
Of reignited depths.
Your precious gift of sunlight that
Glares through wintry clouds
Wakes spirits and thaws the most frozen of souls.
You give us hours in which the earth’s hearty scent
breaks through its icy crust,
Allowing blades of grass to groggily
Wake from their lethargy.
On these days, men smile as the
Slush melts into gutters,
And children happily walk to school without coats.
Winter’s cumbersome boots return to the
Backs of closets, and seasonal pastels
Take their places in dresser drawers.
You send birds to flit among the still-barren trees
And other creatures to peek out of their hiding places,
Some brave enough to venture out
Into the soggy, thawed terrain.
You gently remind earth-dwellers
Of your ageless renewal,
Expected as the buds of flowers that will appear
A few short weeks after your departure.
As you gradually expose elements of the new season,
The transition from winter to spring
Interchanges with ease.
Oh, March, you are good.
Bonus poems:
scrutinies
one must have a mind of seeing God
in attempting to fathom what is
and what is not
one must see God in yellow shoes
that shuffle beneath a long coat,
clicking across the sidewalk
one must see God in the self-checkout line
as the scanner illuminates
with each tub of raspberries
one must see him in everything
throughout every day
or one will not see him at all
walking with lucy
before
the dawn had come,
we walked along the road,
red-tipped ears and noses, staring
upward.
coming home
after
we cleaned our feet,
glass fogged in the kitchen
windows, and you put on some fresh
coffee.
Year Three
My sequestered heart breaks and hardens
as I drive down Adams St.
I know my way downtown, now –
the half-crumbled houses and
abandoned bars are my landmarks,
guiding me somberly through warzone.
Am I an army general, or a medic,
or another wounded soldier,
hidden by mounds of cancerous needles?
Or am I nothing but a trespasser
in this bomb-ridden field?
Janie Adams is a senior double major in English and Writing. She would describe herself as a New Girl enthusiast, a half-hearted plant lover, and a cynical-but-dedicated user of essential oils. You also might find her attempting to crochet. Janie enjoys reading poetry out loud with others who appreciate it, and she hopes to continue her journey as a writer by creating a space of pondering and empowerment with those around her.