An afternoon in March.

Hillocks of dead grass, edges greening --

impossible sand, improbable longing;


Here is an artificial lake, a young boy

probing the edge with a stick,


Here is a sky hovering just overhead

a cloudless day hanging around in bed


and then, to remember the kiss

that first, breathless kiss


my heart pounds,

feet on an iron stairwell

rattling metal, clanging veins


the psychological burden of exile

so alone

so alone

until that glorious moment


night sky now, ravishing just overhead

a bright night, splashing just over my head


a thousand pinpoints of light

like green shoots of grass, new

but just barely, and so sweet --


Like an afternoon in March.



susan smith nash

march 17, 2002