This afternoon I'll be heading north into the homeland for tomorrow's class, with a quick stop-off in Harmony to visit a friend and check out mud season. The morning's time change has already thrown me off. I feel like I'm running late for everything, and I imagine the teenagers will be a wreck tomorrow. Ah, well: we'll bumble through.

I did get the housework done yesterday, and went for a walk with Tom, and even attached my Christmas-present bicycle bell to Vita's handlebars and took her out for our first spin of the season. The day was cold and windy, but the sky was bright and crocuses were blooming in a neighbor's front yard.

Now I'm listening to a cardinal sing and sass outside in the chilly morning air. I've been reading Zora Neale Hurston's short stories, mostly set in Florida, where spring is a riot of growth. Maine is so stingy in comparison. I fall on my knees in front of a single pale blossom.

So much to love. And yet:

Explain 

Dawn Potter 

There were mistakes There were lives lost
There were speeches delivered and
speeches heard There were men who
explained the speeches There were lies
for a reason There were lies
There were mistakes that were lies
There were men who explained
There were speeches that no one heard
There were reasons There were lives
There were men There were no mistakes


[first published in A Dangerous New World: Maine Voices on the Climate Crisis]