Just-Doing-That-Moon: Everyday Magic, Day 893

Snow, do you forsake the forsythia?

This land’s Osage Indians, like many tribal people, named each month for its ecological context, bestowing upon March the name of “Just-Doing-That Moon” If it rains, it’s just doing that. If it tornadoes, it’s just doing that. If it’s crazy wind and wildly hot, it’s just doing that, and if it snows, it’s of course just doing that.

Today, after a week of thunder storms, hot and wild wind, balmy breezes, and an explosion of magnolia, daffodil, hyacinth, forsythia, and all manner of blooming trees, it’s time for snow. Here is a poem I wrote about this stretch of the season from my book Landed:

Just-Doing-That-Moon

The cupboards licked clean by grief,

I open the front door anyway.

Ice wind, hot sun – too much or too little.

I close the door.

Give me an hour, and the cupboards

fill again with cans and boxes ready

to warm the belly, add weight

to the thin blue glass dinner plates

while the wind turns balmy,

the sky seamlessly white,

both of which scour the ground

which wants something planted

but not just yet.

Close my eyes, the dreams bleed

and quicken, just like this March weather:

a rush overhead as if the bare sycamore

is a canopy of faces, all the ancestors

at their tea party. Open my eyes,

and I can’t remember anything

but this old dog grief, chasing rabbits

Yup, the blossoming peach tree

in his sleep, always hungry.

When I open the night door to the

Just-doing-that moon, I forget all but

the surprise of snow at midnight

that falls so lightly, it can rest on

the lip of the first daffodil.

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