MARCH

After the operation you must learn

to walk again, each afternoon we drive

to the graveyard and the dying pond--

it's March in its relentlessness,

the ground frozen and floating ice melt,

gelid, every day you bend a bit

more, the knife piercing your ribs,

we walk the snow-crusted field

of slumped stones and snow hollows,

we keep our course, back to the ashen

asphalt where each day you count

your steps, farther, one boot

in front of the pother, while

over the ride of stiff milkweeds

and thistle we hear the nattering

of ducks swimming in open water,

patiently paddling, waiting for

the warmer weather, chasing down

the rival coots and buffleheads

turning their bills and burying them

between their wings, narcoleptic

floaters, impervious to the cold wind

shunting in from the west, and

when I take your mittened hand, love,

and lead you back to the car,

I hear you grunt and wheeze

with each step, stubborn, insulted

by the scalpel, fingers probing,

the snap of gristle and tissue,

the insult of steel and extraction,

the gasp for breath, it's so timely,

isn't it?, climbing back in the car

like arthritic dogs, grateful, we think,

for this cold snap, all the gray,

clouds of mallards flying down

from the west, each squadron

splashes down and slows to a quacking

drone, we close the windows and seal out

a few wraiths of cold breath, another

day, another few steps, another day

together, waiting for spring.