March

By Elizabeth Smith

This morning, the tree sparkles
in its blanket of white,

bestowed from the most
recent storm.

The snow drips down a branch,
almost becoming an icicle locked in place,

reflecting the mountainside.
But a woman kicks the trunk with her galoshes,

and the slick mound spills off the tree
and onto a patch of mud beginning to thaw.

Her ears crave the silent melody of a tulip stretching,
The groggy buzzing of a lawnmower.

She carries a sack of medicines
and squeezes through the side door.