There is a terrible tenderness in March
grass
In the bare and the grey
In the defeated way
It lays flat
After the weight
Of snow
I walk gingerly
Around it
Stay on the asphalt
But still
I feel its dryness in
The cracks in my hands
And the lines around my eyes
And I know
It’s a sign
That I should sit
On the fencepost
And stay
But instead I deny it—
Three times—
And walk away
