March 14th:
Said the snow to the maple grove,
Said the maple to the snow
Turn sighing into breath
Marianne Moore
Alone in the maple grove the snow spoke to the cold:
hello, don’t you know
me
And to the snow the oldest of the old told the snow
hello, yes I know you, how
you blow only so long I know
how you flit on the frigid tip
of this spile and can’t resist
either the one or the untelling
sum of those above you
or the liquid the vein of core
i/we all pour...
And to the maple
but those who have tapped
you have left you
who but my foot or two
to four--more
will fall inside the nude
of you, I’m not through
won’t you, shoeless to
your root, sockless still
become the tongue
your liquid middle
some mild February
rashly melted
Suppose, snow, I said:
the wind knows although
no that’s just not so,
woodsmoke knows
the whole winter
the cold ash of last
December all the apple-
wood tinder that the farmer
saw to saw
and saw, in smoke floating
above the flames
then beneath the pan
to be raked out
in April--
you have no idea, holding
on brief as only you
can you mid-March
snow with growth
already (though whispering
now at your bravado)
that you’ll blow over
a week maybe no more
and those feet
or three or four will
sink into me
and like the bee I’ll make it
another me
I’ll squeeze it
up and through my hide
and heat, Heat!
while to you it is is not
the end of me.
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