March by Thalmann Simon (8 results)

Condition: New.

Condition: As New. Unread book in perfect condition.

Condition: New.

Condition: As New. Unread book in perfect condition.

PAP. Condition: New. New Book. Shipped from UK. THIS BOOK IS PRINTED ON DEMAND. Established seller since 2000.

Condition: New. Print on Demand.

PAP. Condition: New. New Book. Delivered from our UK warehouse in 4 to 14 business days. THIS BOOK IS PRINTED ON DEMAND. Established seller since 2000.

Paperback. Condition: new. Paperback. March (The Fog Line) collects 101 poems written in March 2020 in Kalamazoo, Michigan, many of them drafted as the first COVID restrictions began taking effect at the start of the pandemic. Almost Spring It's almost spring: A sudden greenreplaced the hills of blackened snow, as overnight the sun-built strengthof dawn arrived to grow and burn. The cold dissolved into a breezewarm enough to keep the windowsopen morning-wide, the glass panes raisedfor early bird-song screens. We know: Winter is a patient close to death, waiting for that final shallow breathwhen the dying finally stops, and tearsdrop dead eyes clear to cloudless skies. Minefield The driveway is a minefieldof worms to the mailbox, and I'm skipping like a kidplaying hopscotch on recess, dodging the lines in the rain.It was supposed to be sixtydegrees and then storm, butI think we went straight forthe storm, skipped the sixty.It's still almost cold and sowet, everything pooling ordripping with water. I openthe box and it's empty, my hand damp and cold fromthe door. I wipe it on myjeans and retreat, tiptoeingback past the worms to thesafety and quarantinedtrenches of home. March Madness A cloud descends over the monthand stays, the days all grays and whiteswithout a silver lining. Indifference rising, it hangs like a fogover half-frozen fields, slicks skin, mucks minds. Time fades; this March is madness. Apathetic sadness floods like melting snowwhile panicked masses rock in place, together keeping pace alone. Mistakes were madeand it's too late to fix them. Faith fades like frost soaking the worsted, worn by the wise against false spring. Anyone I can't see you whenI close my eyesanymore. You're likea ghostrepeating a routine, looping my roomin steps you neverreally took.I can't hear you, your lost echoof a voice. WhenI close my eyes, your face is justa glimpse of teethsmiling, butI can't rememberwhat that looks likeeither. This item is printed on demand. Shipping may be from our UK warehouse or from our Australian or US warehouses, depending on stock availability.…