March?

Winter wanes into Spring.
Cold.
Slate to granite to Italian marble
slide on feathered wings

The burden an oxen would struggle to bear.
Winter wanes into Spring.
Cold.
Spirals to about face to thrusts
buffet in swirls of caress
The force Thor would struggle to resist.

Winter wanes into Spring.
Cold.
Slithers to worms to injections
burrow through slivers agape
The stealth the stock still buck would struggle to discern.

Winter wanes into Spring.
Cold.
The burden.
The force.
The stealth.
Lifts
In the tip of green at the edge of life.
In a flash of azure gasping through the nebula.
In the flutter of a wing lighting for sustenance.

Susan Ceely Phillips

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