March, Cassia Stuttard

As my feet fumbled for the dog-eared path
I woke night’s breath from its sleep
where it had lain down in the grass
and crushed daisies into soggy leaves.
Paths bleed towards the river, streams burnt
into the land that will always remember
last winter’s frost when the earth’s cheek
lay bare and chapped to the wind,
sky’s face waking puffy each morning,
and the line of the trees smudged,
rubbed out hastily, obliterated
most days, most mornings like these.