March

August 27, 2012

March

Spring steps barefoot through the dark woods,

and a dusting of snow clings to her skirts.

She feels the slender bow on her back, barely

bouncing with each footstep, the frozen ground

firm and steady under her feet.

A bird cries out through the early air.

The winter moon,

the westward moon,

the wayward moon,

full and gleaming in its cold light,

leads Spring between the trees,

the snow glittering like diamonds before her.

She marches on. The sun rises slowly, and the world

is beautiful: white as china, paper thin. The trees stand dark

as ink. The sky is clear and forever blue.

And soon, in a clearing:

Winter, the sleeping bear.

Swiftly, Spring nocks an arrow, draws

back the bow, but pauses. A chill breeze

drifts through, carrying scents of wood smoke

and pine: the memory of a smoldering fire, far away,

the last embers drifting up to burn with the stars.

Spring looks down, taking aim again as Winter

snores softly, shivers in his sleep, and her shoulders rise,

and fall, silent as snow. She shifts her stance, preparing

for the bitter chase. And then Spring looses her arrow

and races away.