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March-ing Toward Spring . . .

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Crocus .jpg

This is what I'm looking for these days when I'm in our still snow-covered yard--the crocus. I'm hoping I see it soon, and then the Iris will follow! Years ago, a dear friend gave me a print of a crocus done by the fabulous artist Corita Kent.  On the print, Corita had written in her beautiful calligraphy, "Flowers Grow Out of Darker Moments."  From the "subnivian zone" to light.  Yes!  

So for this little writing, I kept wanting to find the perfect March poem.  I think this one, entitled "March" (by Mary Oliver) certainly goes along with Corita's quotation because it's about the reality of loving, the reality of living.  So as we enter the month of March, I give you Mary Oliver's "March."


There isn't anything in this world but mad love.  
Not in this world.
No tame love, calm love, mild love, no so-so love.
And, of course, no reasonable love.
Also there are a hundred paths through the world that are easier than loving.
But, who wants easier?  
We dream of love, we moon about it, thinking of Romeo and Juliet, or Tristan, or the lost queen rushing away over the Irish sea, all doom and splendor.
Today, on the beach, an old man was sitting in the sun.  
I called out to him, and he turned.
His face was like an empty pot.  
I remember his tall, pale wife; she died long ago.  I remember his daughter-in-law.  When she died, hard, and too young, he wept in the streets.  
He picked up pieces of wood, and stones, and anything else that was there, and threw them at the sea.  
Oh, how he loved his wife.  Oh, how he loved young Barbara.
I stood in front of him, not expecting any answer, yet not wanting to pass without some greeting.  
But his face had gone back to whatever he was dreaming.  
Something touched me, lightly, like a knife-blade.  
I felt I was bleeding, though just a little, a hint.  
Inside I flared hot, then cold.  
I thought of you.  
Whom I love, madly.  

(from _White Pine_, page 53)


 . . . and then the Iris will follow