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

sleep-talking

in the dry crackle

of a naked hedge

home

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

kissed

me

.

.

.

.

shaun

1966-1995.

.

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

© Ruth Ann Scanzillo

1995

all rights reserved. Really. Thank you.

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