Our Crocus flowers opened wide for the brief sunshine this morning.

In the Suffragette garden, Crocus flowers and nearby bursting buds

A poem entitled March came my way recently and I share it with you here. Natasha Trethewey is another poet new to me. She is an American poet despite her Cornish name – Cornish heritage perhaps.

March 1912 – Natasha Trethewey                             

–Postcard, en route westward

At last we are near
breaking the season, shedding
our coats, the gray husk

of winter.  Each tree
trembles with new leaves, tiny
blossoms, the flashy

dress of spring. I am
aware now of its coming
as I’ve never been—

the wet grass throbbing
with crickets, insistent, keen
as desire.  Now,

I feel what trees must—
budding, green sheaths splitting—skin
that no longer fits.

It rained the rest of the day, tears running down the window panes, echoing the pain felt in our choir at the loss of one of our members.  This poem also turned up recently and it seems the right moment to share it.

When you meet someone deep in grief