March 4, ’89


A fine, filming, flaking ice

on last year’s grass

and that grand, cleansing

lateral wind

the scent

of false spring

. . . .

wide-eyed sparrows


in the dry crackle

of a naked hedge


on fledgling plans

for a weekend fling

without their coats

. . . .

he’d danced a side step

up the walk

in his long, grey tweed

that week

ending winter

would I come up for tea?


and I

am not remembering

when I kissed him

if he










* this is a re-post…..can we believe that, on March 1, we cannot smell even a false spring?!

© Ruth Ann Scanzillo


all rights reserved. Really. Thank you.


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