March 29
It will hurt. The empty
pages of a lost book
you can never read again:
Now you know what it is
to write. To take a walk.
The boxwoods whisper
only the prurient details,
the red maples an advocacy
of lifting secrets suddenly
light as squirrels. Everything
that comes close to the light
scatters its shadow farther from
the shape of what we felt,
the dark fret where footprints
filigree the sorrowful soil
of another rich season.
Translations from the English 
I’ve been spending too much time in that “dark fret.” Maybe April will be better.
Yeah man! I love March mostly because it ends. Here in VA the peonies are already in an uprising.
Lovely. And true. Thanks for sharing this.