LXXXVIII
~Emily Dickinson
We like March, his shoes are purple,
He is new and high;
Makes he mud for dog and peddler,
Makes he forest dry;
Knows the adder’s tongue his coming,
And begets her spot.
Stands the sun so close and mighty
That our minds are hot.
News is he of all the others;
Bold it were to die
With the blue-birds buccaneering
On his British sky.
I find this oddball poem completely delightful. Its bizarre syntax and quirky excitement perfectly capture how topsy-turvy giddy I felt this morning upon realizing that we made it through February! While the sun is not particularly close or mighty (the dog and I walked through the icy remnants of last night’s wintry mix), the birds sound like spring. The first wild herbs of March are greening along fencerows. Trees are budding, their sap on the move. Winter is passing, and though the blue-birds are not yet buccaneering as far north as Virginia, they are on their way.
The Emily Project 