march roars in
and i fear its retreat
without so much
as a tiny little lamb
to lay between us,
as winds well remind.

this time last year
the blood came, ironically,
as you pricked your finger
along the final stitches
of my medicine bag
bleeding into the leather.

my belly had cramped
as if in shocked response
to all of our world
preparing to drop out
between my stubborn,
double-crossed legs.

we looked at each other
with a "say it is not so,"
begging for a stay,
defying the black magic
a sad mimic of alanis
with our "isn't it ironic?"

this year, full circle,
the leather is worn
with medicine trusted
through the ages ...
some old, some new
much borrowed, still blue.

my guts lurch again,
another storm building,
everything held is loosened
in that trickle down effect
of lost or blighted dreams,
jumping beans refusing to be.

as if march is not
enough the reminder,
a bloody difficult april,
a memory of last year,
gives my soul no rest
as i continue to nurse
an aching belly wound.

it was springtime
there should have been
flowers and new growth
but in your absence
i "stroked out" near death
and everything within
washed away by default.

this season demands renewel,
a completion of the circle,
petals open to the sun,
a brain relieved of stress,
a viscera more capable
of holding fast our dream.




credit where credit is due, i suppose ... for some reason alanis swims through this piece, three dog night starts barking and langston hughes ... ahh langston ... i thank all of the above for gracing me and lacing through as intertext.