March brings its rain
and stubborn questions.
The red-wing blackbirds
return. I walk through
the half-thawing marsh, listening
to that familiar oak-a-lee call.
Every time the blackbird sings,
he shrugs his shoulders.
I don’t know either, I tell him.
Sometimes, I think the soul
is two-toned, like an old board—
the half that’s been baked by sunlight
is dark brown, the color of cinnamon,
or burnt toast, while the other half
that was covered with a stone or sheet
of plywood is light yellow, as though
the tree has just been cut—then
blackbird interrupts—
isn’t this a little extravagant?
Adding “the soul” to every problem, isn’t it
excessive, like including saffron threads in a dessert?
Yes, I answer, excessive—unnecessary, even
if it does impart that pretty yellow
you can’t manage with other dyes,
and subtle flavor, easy to miss,
like the soul when you consider all
the ingredients for life, many
of which are strong-flavored
like garlic, or molasses…
But aren’t we getting our metaphors
mixed up a little? We don’t eat number two pine,
we aren’t beavers, shouldn’t we choose?
Is the soul a spice, or an element of architecture? 
Things should be squared and orderly!
Blackbird has no response for this.
He shrugs and flashes that red stripe
as though it answers every question.
Some presence in a clump of cattails
summons him away. I ought to keep
myself focused on what’s necessary,
on how to solve the problem
asked by the doctor’s scalpel
when it cut my mother’s womb
open and left that funny smile on her belly                                       
that I always think of when I see
an old tree in the woods,
scarred by a line of barbed wire
its bark grew to include.
The fence is gone, but
little tines of steel show through.
I’ve been living ever since
with an impression—
that whatever rules
I was supposed to live
by are already
broken…But I never can
make up my mind.
I go back and forth
from an extreme of darkness
to an extreme of light.
Maybe I lack a counter-brace.
Maybe the ground isn’t level.
But, I always end up adding saffron,
blaming the soul, because
it is sweet on my tongue,
and bitter in my stomach—
because it won’t let me be
one thing, light or dark,
excessive, or shy.
It makes me try for both.

– William Welch