Image for post
Image for post
Snowy trees in March (photo my own)

I shouldn’t hate March, but I do
this trickster of months promises spring
then takes it away
dumping another eighteen inches
of thick, sticky snow
(like clumps of brown sugar)
onto overburdened branches

I shouldn’t hate March,
except two days after winter, at last, retreated
while spring, newly born, hung back,
she died

the weak winter sun was her last
the sky, a slab of concrete
the trees, skeletal, ashen
the world colorless

March’s dull eyes had not yet found their shine
the frost, lingering, painted everything
white as death

I do hate March, I do
for wrestling the season away from winter
for pulling the sun close,
so it could thaw the frozen ground,
but not until after she sighed her last breath
not until then!

she died, cheated of the first Magnolia blooms
cheated, when March turned
the dormant grass green
and coaxed the apple trees
into an explosion of buds

each crocus, each daffodil
the color that blossomed to life
as she faded from it —
was a mockery

March has branded everything she lost into my soul
its long days of deprivation are situated
too close to abundance

I do hate March, I do

Jacqueline Dooley is a writer and entrepreneur living in New York’s Mid-Hudson Valley. Her essays on parenting a child with cancer and parental grief have been published in The Washington Post, HuffPost, Longreads, Modern Loss, Pulse, Mothers Always Write, PulseVoices, The Wisdom Daily and more. Find her on Twitter at jackie510.

Written by

Occasional poet. Writer of sad essays. Novelist. Birder and amateur photographer. I enjoy trees.

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