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On the calendar we see the bold
square, marking the number 21 in March,
marking our hope, our deep breath—
21, our emerald prolepsis, our brain’s fast synapse
between withdrawal and its violet crocus,
the winter melt to come.
We’ve counted the moments, assayed the cold,
wondered at the endless shovels of snow
below the solstice, her collapse of light
and retreat of color, marcescent now
to brown, to shadows, and pummeling white.
Yet that squared 21 on our calendared month
reminds that time moves on, blossoms
to peach— even tugs on all yearnings yet to come.
Copyright 2019 Judith A. Brice
Judith A. Brice’s books include Overhead from Longing (David Robert Books)