Mid-March
By Martha Christina
My son points as I thread us
through morning traffic.
"Look at the green under that dead tree.
It's new grass," he says, and I catch
a quick peripheral glimpse.
He tells me dead trees
turn their lives over to new grass.
His voice, at nine, is high
and clear, and full of authority.
"Look! There's more!"
My eyes sweep the side streets,
all my attention on his safety.
My feet itch for the press of green.
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Martha Christina is the mother of two daughters and two sons. Her poetry has
appeared recently in Natural Bridge, The Aurorean, Crab Orchard Review, and
Brevities. She lives in Bristol, RI.
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