March

So much collides
In these small days. Today
Spring begins, and Purim at sundown:
The earth rolls sleepily into a patch
Of sunlight. We don masks
And crowns.

Tomorrow
Jesus will die,
And the moon will fill herself
Full. Sunday he will rise:

Small feet will shift
In ankle socks. We speak
Murder to one another;
Fertility, salvation. Birdsong.
We are wrapped
In the sky-blue skirts
Of holy women and heroines, and red forgiveness
Runs down the aisles. We will hide our faces
And plant eggs
Like they were seeds. We will all
Be reborn.

Poem by Kate Horowitz