A hiking trail in early March
By Daniel Charland
Brown and brown and sometimes brown:
in vying shades of leftover leaf, brittle bark,
the inedible chocolate pudding of ground
smearing on boots and pooling in puddles.
Little Spring’s new room is a mess, the
leafy confetti from her baby shower to
Autumnal Matron late last year
litters the floor, the itchy trees at her
birthday shifting, restless, waiting
for the party to liven up.
White and white and sometimes brown:
the wintery egg from which she hatched
bits of shell still everywhere, cracking
into fragments, dissolving, revealing
the malleable chocolate yoke under.
Hatch, grow, and come into your own,
Little Spring. Scribble your colorful
crayons on the walls and floor.
Make me no longer at risk of sliding
downhill and being covered in your
primordial essence. Babble your songs
in the empty sky and fill my ears with
anything but the ruffle of my jacket
sleeves rubbing as I walk.
Green and blue and sometimes brown,
your messy birth, with a bit of pain,
completely worth the price.