Here we are at the end of March—a month the poet Swinburne describes as “master of winds, bright minstrel, and marshal of storms.” *

Poets have been writing about the month of March for centuries—Wordsworth, Bryant, Dickinson, Swinburne, Neruda—whispering nuanced lines that tug at my thoughts and shape my daydreams.

My house is a poet.

I stand in the living room before bay windows much bigger than me. Below, the woolen mill’s hoary, industrial steam puffs and curls like the color of a sheep’s fleece. While over the naked hills, the March light shines soft and pink. A tease of blooms still asleep in flower beds.

But these windows have been awake and watching for 142 years. They’ve seen many gleaming skies—undeceived. For their glass is cold with drafts that whisper, remember them.