sweetened seeds in sheaths,

spring’s tunic dressed in

last sun’s poppies,

twelve moon pirouettes since

we consumed these;

behold the equinox

now we drum for feasts

after the defeat of piercing ice –

we know the lottery life is,

dark and light enfolded in each granted quarter,

I will eat past bitterness with honey

like water, mirth quenches our thirst,

little joys like March hares on wakened earth.

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch