by John Surowiecki
We are vaccinated, soldiers baring arms,
and the sunlight is—not warmer,
never that—but less hostile, asking, not insisting,
that winter leave us at last,
returning days with faces
and voices that warm
in the resonance of other voices,
strings of jokes and brilliant
escapades and foolish theories.
Because it was winter last summer and winter last spring
and it was winter when the irises bloomed,
the color of wounds and iodine.
And the drought that killed them
was nothing less than a blizzard, static and brown,
and the fall that announced winter was winter
and the winter that came was more wintery than winter
with frozen air and house-
high snow and daggered trees
And now we squint and tear
and find shadows everywhere,
watching where we walk
for just-born hornets or waxy hyacinths.
Now we find our gloves preposterous
and our boots leaden
and with a flourish unwind our school-
striped scarves and cram them
into our pockets.
John Surowiecki lives in Hebron, Connecticut, and is the author of seven chapbooks and six full collections of poetry, the most recent being Burger King of the Dead, published this spring by Grayson Books. “The Sun This March” is part of a work in progress called Thirty-Two Poems from Titles by Wallace Stevens.