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Reconciling Growth

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.

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