A WALK IN MARCH

by Grace Paley

This hill crossed with broken pines and 

maples lumpy with the burial mounds of

uprooted hemlocks (hurricane

of ’38) out of their

rotting hearts generations rise

trying once more to become

the forest

just beyond them

tall enough to be called trees

in their youth like aspen a bouquet

of young beech is gathered

they still wear last summer’s leaves

the lightest brown almost translucent

how their stubbornness has decorated

the winter woods

on this narrow path ice tries

to keep the black undecaying oak leaves

in its crackling grip    it’s become

too hard to walk    at last a

sunny patch    oh!    i’m in water

to my ankles   APRIL