shr_4.1

Sarah Ann Winn
Theater of March
Brown stage curtains remain closed.
If you don't brave the bluest
of the bruised clouds, you might miss
the burst through when the buds slip
their hands through the sleeves of twigs —
some still brown mittened. some green.
Soon the birds — the shyest ones —
arrive with a kind of spring,
if not one you remember.
Cue: whiteout, paper birches
unpeel, reveal stage notes carved
deep, unweathered. Inserted
in your program, a card requests
a small donation — maybe
a grape hyacinth, maybe
a branch of pussy willows.
The brashest forsythia.
A bracing of melt. Check one.
Leave it in the jar by the door.
Right now, there’s only staging.
Each set layer moves offstage.
First, snowbanks part to reveal
white-lit mountains, falling away
blue silhouetted skyline.
Redbuds approach on tracks upstage
to down, advancing towards
the audience — through the seats,
the lobby, the parking lot,
out to a clearing, a green
place, applause in a field full of fiddleheads.
45