The Month of March

Emily Dickinson's poem, Part Five: The Single Hound, starts like this:

MARCH is the month of expectation,
The things we do not know

While March can be a month of hope, there is a sense that it will always be this way.

The salted slush comfortable on the ground; cold wind that nips on ears like a puppy that will never be trained; a profound darkness that trails us home at 5 p.m. But soon, light will flood our evenings and stretch out like a baby waking from slumber. We will smile at strangers on city streets, and all that is rotting will bloom green.

Winter will fold its cards, because it no longer has the winning hand. I say goodbye to February; a month of shallow breathing and hibernation. I fling my arm back, wave my floppy hand, but I do not turn my head. No, I keep my eyes forward.

One step at a time, until I feel sunshine.