Any blossom in March is a blessing. The pink geranium and oxalis plants have been with me for five years now; out on the porch each summer, back inside to winter over and send out flowers as a counter to the monochrome tones of winter.
But already there’s color in the hillsides of hardwoods, the faint blush of the buds just beginning to let go, responding to the lengthening light. Here’s a poem from year’s ago, that wonders about that color and what we see of light and dark.
Consequence
What if you failed to notice
low sun on the south trunk of the maple,
its shadow side already drifting
to dark, the horizon ready to assume
the indigo hue of the hillsides
of hardwood, winter tight buds?
We’re only given one run
at the sequence of consequence
that stems from noticing or not,
from being in the woods past dusk,
watching the sky grow grey,
laced by black maples.
Grace Mattern 