There used to be snow in March,
poems about peace
but it hardly snows here
so there are hardly any snow poems
or peace poems.
There’s a lot of anger poems,
written from anger,
and poems on fire.

When I was a child
I watched the Selma march
on the news, watched my father,
a small-town pastor,
wipe away tears for the moderation
MLK displayed,
the contained ferocity
of King’s manner,
his unshaking resolve.
It shook my father.

Like snow, MLK blanketed
the world and by his love
came challenges and truth
not expressed in hate poems
but in love language and deed,
and it was climate change
he was after, the temperature
of the heart not risen
but cooled by perseverance
for tolerance, concord.

It was March, not quite winter,
not quite spring.
Then a murder in April
before blossoms could unfold.
I think King would think
we’re still stuck right there,
waiting for blossoms, the marching,
snow mixed with anger
anger melting the snow,
our relapses into coldness
turning the snow-melt into ice,
March stuck in a never-ending cycle,
King wooing us forward,
our blooming not accomplished.
                        

Drawn to celebrate
the equinox, cold
March weather
come to abrogate
by circumflex,
with mottled moon
and snow’s last lace,
a mother bends
to find a place
to kiss her child,
her kind hands tame
his thatch-roof
cap-crushed hair,
his shame concealed,
her love forgiving
raise his stare
from scuffing
shoe-drawn
bent-neck
disgrace,
her soft palm
spooning his jaw,
elevating his chin,
exposing to light
his vernal face