EQUINOX: Saturday, 21 March, 1981

Louis awoke in his chalet to the sound of tearing winds. The night had been deep and full of tossing dreams beneath the powerful sway of the full and cloudy moon. He lay in fuzzy, semi-sleep. His eyes burned, and he did not wish to rise.

The March wind rushed along the earth and slammed against the chalet walls. There was no shuddering, yet the sound was powerful. He could imagine that the sea below his hill would be quite

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Winter mammals

“Walden pond ice,” from Rimager’s Walden album on flickr

There’s something wrong with
how we do winter, making it
the busiest time of year. Our calendar

Is all wrong. Yes, the sun
starts back
on the solstice,
but that just means
we should be rolling over in our sleep
and waiting for spring.

Why—though the empire insist—
do we stay above ground,
scurrying around
as

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The Profane Gardener

Waiting for Quaker meeting
with a fence of white jasmine
behind me
and the
sun
a bit too warm

I hear from across
another wooden fence
opposite
the shout of the
morning-sobered plumber
stumbling from his
trailer:

“Alright! The first lily
has bloomed!
Fuckin’ yes!”

"Easter yellow," by Mike Shell (2012)

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