March

I looked in
through the damp and
dark-barked trees
cold spring come
the first sound
and smell
of dripping water and
the moss gone to green
and I saw her

continue
to keep her secrets
of the times
around the corners
and down the stairs
and of the nightdreams
and waiting daydreams
about
being visible
and of breaking
her own heart
as if
that were love
or a promise
or a way to
be full

go ahead
and kiss her
she still
doesn't know

fog and
a tiny mist
even the trees
now obscured
and slowly gone

but only
from sight.