My love for winter expires in March. (Icicles twice my height shutter my window right now + 8″ snow is scheduled for this afternoon.)
So here’s a poem about beloved mud season, which won’t be for a while here in Minnesota. Just holding out for spring ephemerals, open water, and dirt.
This poem was heavily influenced by Elis Regina singing Águas de Março on repeat for days (é a lama, é a lama).