March

March wades in ankle deep in the melt. The edges of iron nights rust turn into pyrite dawns. Pewter rivers shimmer into silver fish-tailed coats as the sunlight rolls down main street window-shopping. Of a sudden nail-bound ribcages loosen, worn down faces surface once more like lost coins, polished a little now and spending smiles. March is a slow jazz melody played through a fuzzy neck scarf. Hands appear shaking fingers encouraging the early flights of expansive gestures. On the roofs of many mouths voices stretch out to taste the sweetness of a dripping sky. The city sweeps itself, in the early light, puts on a left over makeup, begins to spackle over the ice cracked stains of winter. We quietly celebrate and calculate, dividing warm days from the chill, fold away fat reserves begin to wander into grocery stores just to marvel at the early ripeness of greenhouse fruits, the bright display of plenty to come.