March Night by John Grey

Awake in cold dark,
wet wind hammering the window,
sheets in disarray,
curtain in tremors.
Walls feel thin as my skin.
Night is raw.
Why sleep?
Even the sun in dreams
sinks before the glistening
chill of ghosts.

The dregs of February
keep the blood from business,
these corpuscles mere shills
for the brumal carnival.

So March shakes off winter's starkness,
for its own belligerence, damp and blustering,
the bitterest cold, not out there
somewhere in the depths of snow,
but blowing homeward.

Sure, it's April soon,
winter's death is assured,
but I shiver through the ice tears of its mourners.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and the Round Table. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Lana Turner and Hollins Critic.