March is so fickle and uncommitted.  I wrote this a couple of years ago and it most certainly applies to our midwestern week.

Twilight cold
Sifting snow
Sifting snow.

Blizzard wind
Singing pines
Sifting snow in the
Twilight cold

Crested drifts
Shifting snow
Blizzard wind in the
Twilight cold

Quiet twilight
Cold wind blowing
Blizzard singing in the
Sifting cold

We shoveled snow all day and I wondered how we will do it when we’re eighty.
Eighty is not old unless you’re shoveling snow.  Last night I went for a walk in the
blizzard over to the river.  All I could hear was the wind until I came to the pine trees.
They made a beautiful musical tone.  I’d never heard it before.  The snow was “sifting”
off of the rooftops.  It was very beautiful.  I’m glad I walked.

The Labyrinth

The sun sets to the toil of the day
So I walk the labyrinth
of this freshly furrowed clay.
Each ridge and valley
…quiet in its readiness
……plowed and dark
……alive and resting.
So straight
and narrow the corridor
that lays open to this breeze
ready for the seed.
I cross the ribbons of this field
that were neatly laid in prayer.
I cross in twilight
this prayer
…that’s written in the earth.

March Wind


The March wind
so different from the
gentle, later,
spring breeze.

Pushes, and strong arms
it’s way out of winter.
There is a strength that’s needed
for this change.
   To blow away the snow,
      the leaves that have hung
         and refused to go.

This wind… it demands.
It refuses and is stubborn.
It makes a way for what is new.
Baptizing us with rain.


Do we know the history,
the genealogy of our faith,
whose shoulders we rest within,
or the stone we’ve stumbled on?

If we listen will we see?
Were they restless as they grew,
Was there contentment in the fog?
Can they, will they, help us now?

If we listen, will they lead
and help us on our way?
Can I stay abiding,
and if I listen will I see
the fear that set them free…
the pain that made them whole
…or the loss that gave them all?


Winter, pooling in the puddles of March
      with the smell of grass still frozen to the ground
         and the tamarack brown upon the marsh.

A lacy leaf,
a gray beauty, barely visible
from a different season.

The breeze strengthened
and direction changed,
   …the lengthened days
         will birth the
         … praying hands
from within the embryonic buds.