March Grass

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