Song of the March Rains                

Listen now, dare

to fall silent.  Open

the tight-furled fiddlehead

of the ear, the sheathed stem

of the throat.  Let us fill you

with the journey songs

of the rocks, glacier-carried,

with the standing songs of oak

and hemlock, white pine

and black birch.

Lie still now, melt

like the tired snow. Winter

has beaten you, so surrender.

Give up even the hardness of your bones,

let the soil take back her minerals.

Let us carry you softly, gladly

like a corpse to the river.

Become again the strange

silent child you always were,

wandering alone in the fields

and woods for hours.

Soon spring will come

and all will be happy: the deer

feasting on fresh green shoots,

the people in their gardens.

But this is the hungry time,

the lonely time, the time in between—

who loves this land now?

We sing to you on your sickbed,

we sing you away from the too-warm fire,

from the blinding enclosure of the lights.

We sing to that strange one,

that dark one within

who smells joy on the wet March wind

and sees all that will be

already present

in this muddy mess

of becoming.

--Lisa Nash