MARCH

March is the strangest time
to sit alone in a coffee house
with an old memory of the Bay
as unrolling sunshine
reaches these stained windows
to shade us
from silent winter blues,
the still air is empty of birds
over the hilltop trees
when snow shadows
the greensward park
or gusty wind shouts
hiding us in the dark,
a poet is still alone
in first light patches
thirsting for words.