how to know it’s march.

Under dried leaves, snowdrops.

On my mind, sunshine.

In the forecast, rain.

At the end of branches, fuzz.

Over cold ankles, no socks.

Under the tongue, a tincture.

On my forehead, trimmed bangs.

In my water bottle, fruit water.

At farmers’ markets, wind-blown pansies.

On tiny feet, rain boots. 

Bedside, tissues.

In my tea cup, nettles.

Across the street, the sunny side.

Under bodega lights, daffodils.

In the hallway, umbrellas.

Tracked inside, mud.

In the heels of socks, holes.

On my walk home from work, daylight.

(In case you missed them: January & February.)