“Who could be ill in March, that Month of proclamation?”

               —Emily Dickinson, in a letter (dated March 1885)

               to Helen Hunt Jackson

We will meet again, in the hills, in March

when the snow will have seen the sun

for a while and the soft ground

will still glint

until late in the morning. The kits

and the kittens,

having survived the winter, will now be free.

The children in the neighbouring villages

will be readying their feet

to run towards the ice-cream vendors

every other day. We will meet again,

like we always have, free

to kiss each other

once the birds will have claimed back

their nests and relearned quiet.

The hills in March will be like hands

returning from prayer, cracking open like

snow does after the touch of the sun’s

first warmth. The farmers

will ready some saplings for the year.

The petals will leave the bud for a flower,

for a while. You will be there,

in the hills, in March,

a smile stretched across your face.

And mine. We will meet again,

near the gates of an old church, the way

two lovers meet after ages of distance.