March Poem

Every year, about this time,

I bury my mother’s bones.

In April, they spring up 

as Lilac’s purple blooms.

In May, they are an altar

in blossom.

During June, their petals float softly 

on neighbouring plots.

And in July, they tread back

Curramore road

and end up in Gort Bog.

August sees them nestled

in brambles on the boreen,

where I ramble for blackberries,

and maroon fuchsias burn

like votive candles before the giver

of harvests.

Soon, dead foliage and frost 

will take over and December 

rain will have its way.

After long nights, I will reach

for my shovel, happy 

evenings’ stretch

and the sparkle of Equinox light.