March—an unsettling month,
unsteady,
like vultures in the air,
tipping
this way and that.
Faults shift
in the bedrock of my core.
My star cracks slightly, silently.
Uneasy in my bones.
Caesar knew of this.
I know of this.
I married in March,
yet March stole my husband,
and my mother.
Two surgeries
ten years apart.
One took a failed child,
the other all hope of another.
Both March.
This morning, early March,
a pair of Wood Ducks
emerged from the murky
shadows of the pond
to float in the sunlight.
© Jenny Gaden, 2017
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| Turkey vulture Photo by Bob Peterson from North Palm Beach, FL from Wikimedia Commons |
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