A walk in March woods is a poke in the eye.

It's not the day of the storm, or a day after, it's two days after and the field is a crusted moonscape, potholed, and even on snow shoes an exhausting effort of spirit.

Too many broken branches to dodge.

An eye is stung, it pools, it leaks.

But I keep trudging along the river, through the brook, into the woods, to the tracks, the bridge, under the trestle, I trip on dead vines, fall onto the frozen snow, more than once, get up, more than once, I'm seeking something to restore my spirit. I gave up, yesterday, returned home early. Today I seek harder and longer and I'm all the way home an in my own yard before I find what I've been looking for, right where I planted it some years ago.