This fourth day of March
has been brought to us
by: the color Grey
the mood Bleh,
and the letter U(uuuugh).
'Beware the Ides' they say
but I argue it's this —
the first week —
that is most brutal.
I forget each year
and then I once again
devastatingly remember
that March is also
not my friend.
And that color and warmth
— flowers and grass
little squirmy birds
out of blue shells —
are all still so far from
returning, heating
blooming, hatching.
We've made it to
meteorological spring
and it's above freezing
— but not by much
and the snow
is largely gone
— but the cold rain
remains.
We are in the hollow:
the underside of the log
the dark side of the moon
the ambiguous fog of a day
where the skies
and rooflines
and flagstone patios
all dimly appear
in the same muted tone.
When I awake tired
at six in the morning
and yawn before lunch
and then crawl into bed
for a rare nap at two o'clock
— and throughout I can't tell
if the sun even rose today —
then I know
it is not yet time
for celebration.
And so in these
calendrical equivalents
to the doldrums at sea
I have to manifest a revival
in myself, from my memories.
I summon the power of life
of baking sun and blue skies
and light that casts shadows
and splendid riotous foliage
puffy storybook clouds
swirls of verdant landscapes
and the aroma
of endless botanicals.
I close my eyes
and I can see that
leeward expanse
on the side of a volcano
exploding with flora
bright and full of hope
with a clear sightline
miles long down
to the cheery seas
where warm Pacific waves
crash with festive force
against coral and lava sands.
I will myself back
to that moment of freedom
to that immersive sanctuary
where work was
two plane rides away and
my only job was Beach.
I open my eyes,
now peer out
from my desk
at the Maryland murkiness.
While I can still view only
ashen atmosphere as far
as low visibility allows
I swear I smell hibiscus.
I hear the tickle of sticky
Jackson's chameleon feet
creeping in the summoned
bushes and fronds
that flank me and sway
in the gentle coastal breeze.
March too, shall pass.
Until then, I call on
the mainframe moments
I once made in the
Maui sunshine
now handily stored in my
curated mental repository
to get through this grey.
