March (The Fog Line) collects 101 poems written in March 2020 in Kalamazoo, Michigan, many of them drafted as the first COVID restrictions began taking effect at the start of the pandemic. Almost Spring It's almost spring: A sudden green replaced the hills of blackened snow, as overnight the sun-built strength of dawn arrived to grow and burn. The cold dissolved into a breeze warm enough to keep the windows open morning-wide, the glass panes raised for early bird-song screens. We know: Winter is a patient close to death, waiting for that final shallow breath when the dying finally stops, and tears drop dead eyes clear to cloudless skies. Minefield The driveway is a minefield of worms to the mailbox, and I'm skipping like a kid playing hopscotch on recess, dodging the lines in the rain. It was supposed to be sixty degrees and then storm, but I think we went straight for the storm, skipped the sixty. It's still almost cold and so wet, everything pooling or dripping with water. I open the box and it's empty, my hand damp and cold from the door. I wipe it on my jeans and retreat, tiptoeing back past the worms to the safety and quarantined trenches of home. March Madness A cloud descends over the month and stays, the days all grays and whites without a silver lining. Indifference rising, it hangs like a fog over half-frozen fields, slicks skin, mucks minds. Time fades; this March is madness. Apathetic sadness floods like melting snow while panicked masses rock in place, together keeping pace alone. Mistakes were made and it's too late to fix them. Faith fades like frost soaking the worsted, worn by the wise against false spring. Anyone I can't see you when I close my eyes anymore. You're like a ghost repeating a routine, looping my room in steps you never really took. I can't hear you, your lost echo of a voice. When I close my eyes, your face is just a glimpse of teeth smiling, but I can't remember what that looks like either.
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