Blow, if you must March gales…for winter…we are finished with you. The cold’s contract is complete, signed in grey and sealed with exhaustion.
Our eyes turn toward the long anticipated greening of the fields as the faint strains of ‘O Danny Boy’ birthe liltingly and trippingly over rutted, frozen potato mounds. The raw earth and the twisted fence line, they mark time’s passage. Winter threw us famine and now we are cooking up thick, oily and crunchy potato cakes.
Smell the black sod and the heated food. Blow if you must March gales, but the shamrock fog shall soon carry you far away…
690 Saint Paul 