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    photo of a frozen stream with leaves and sticks

    Poem: “March Thaw”

    By Catherine Tufariello

    March 19, 2021
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    Overhead, skeins of geese ya-honk as they pass.
    The dwindling snow crust, an eggshell of glass,
    Cracks underfoot, hatching tufts of pale grass,

    And the air smells of loam and ozone. Sumps brim
    And windows creak open; each twig wears a scrim
    Of blurred buds, and the weather’s new watchword is Whim.

    Who’d have guessed that all winter, white dreamed of green?
    That icicles burned to catch fire? The pristine,
    Marmoreal palace of grief, the White Queen,

    Starts to shimmer and swim. Once numb with despair,
    Her ice statues glisten, with bright, dripping hair
    And tears in their eyes. Look, touch the one there,

    The cold stone of her hand. Feel it soften. Consent
    To let her draw breath. Let perfection relent.
    Wind loves the branches, though blemished and bent.

    Let the child’s tugging kite take flight from the park,
    Let seed leaves emerge from the nourishing dark,
    Let sap find its way to the tap in the bark.

     

    photo of a frozen stream with leaves and sticks

    Photograph courtesy of Coretta Thomson

    Contributed By Catherine Tufariello Catherine Tufariello

    Catherine Tufariello is the author of Keeping My Name, which was awarded the Poets’ Prize, and two chapbooks, Annunciations and Free Time.

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