by Brian R. Lutz
When weather warms and we leave the caves
of our clothing, then crawl back in, it is
March, spring. It is weather that keeps its own
watch and calendar. The squirrels’ scamper and dash
has some knowledge of it and so do the geese, but
spring’s warm births and stillbirths fool me yearly.
From sunset, a green dusk runs in from unseen
horizons and fills the tub of the yard
like a warm sound, and I forget the dangers
of such weather, such promise and negligence.
For all its comfort, I suspect the grave,
too, could be a tub we slip into when these
Pisces-leaves curl in the come-again-cold
like pages in flame or skin in old bathwater.
Brian R. Lutz is a professor at Delaware Valley College and a
former poet laureate of Bucks County, Pennsylvania. His work has
been widely published, most recently in Slate, Poet Lore, Poetry
East, and Louisville Review.
On “March, Spring”:
This poem’s impetus, as so many of my poems, was born of a long
fascination with change, with seasons, with solstice. Always, in
the corners of my mind, the kinetic power of change sparks an
interest in the world around me. I’m drawn to the moment I’m
convinced of something and the moment I realize it’s not true.
These thoughts, anyhow, underlie most of my other thoughts, so
when I came upon two days in March of such different character,
back to back, I couldn’t help but think about the power of change
and the Stevens-like recognition of change as beauty and death
as the ultimate change. It also occurred to me that even spring
dies, and we accept that change with little remorse, with, in fact,
comfort. And so, I created something of a love sonnet for change,
for March, and for the sometimes stuttering start of spring.
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Apple Valley Review:
A Journal of Contemporary
Volume 3, Number 1
Copyright © 2008
by Leah Browning, Editor.
All future rights to material
published in the Apple
Valley Review are retained
by the individual authors