Marc Wiegand is a distinguished international lawyer, visual artist, and writer based in the Texas Hill Country. His poetry, celebrated for its depth and precision, has appeared in respected journals including Innisfree Poetry Journal, The Galway Review, The Madrigal, Blue Unicorn, Ekstasis, and Penwood Review, among others. Wiegand’s unique perspective, informed by his diverse background and acute sensitivity to detail, shines through in both his written and visual works, creating a compelling blend of intellect and artistry. More about his work can be found at artmarco.net/works.
3 Months in 12
The time of day is like a clock. By winter’s 5
it’s dark as night, and in the timeless creek bed elms
are sleeping. Still, their striving roots break solid rock.
The charmless sum of winter’s bones will howl
and claim that spring can never hold its own (not yet).
The live oaks down the asphalt road have all undressed,
and standing bare deny their common name.
Your sudden thunder speaks, but deaf (as you are) can never know
the name of the passing wind (Regret) or where it blows.
The facts are these: You brought the storm upon yourself.
The blood of fallen leaves still warm the virgin earth.
Deep seeds, though blind in dirt, take root (like poetry),
then burst (expelled) from the emptiness of winter’s purse.
There will be flowers here 3 months in 12.
Spin
In the beginning all the world was only night,
the slow hours before dawn, the trembling hype
that poets sing (words dripping-bright with rhyme),
the vague horizon rimmed with little pearls of light
(an iridescent shell ablaze), Homeric fire
in purple hues and clouds of blue and rose
that kissed the wine-dark sea no one supposed
was real: imbalance on the highest wire.
Dawn roamed, unclothed, in an orgy of clichés
and drove dark shadow (with her drover’s whip)
from sleep, its depth, from darkness’ open lips,
and climbed the sky becoming day.
—— : ——
The mortal world is spinning and (with luck)
you feel the traveling axis underfoot.
You feel its weight, the way it spins along.
If it winds toward you when it does, it’s dawn.
And when the motion turns away, it’s dusk.
Villanelle for Wyoming
A back door opens to the fist of winter:
raw wind and winterlight that sting your eyes.
The weather’s only snowing since September.
Pull on your gloves, your leather jacket, and remember
someone sitting at the kitchen table. Fantasize
the breath of spring could be the death of winter.
A radio is playing on the kitchen counter,
singing, “… your no good, no good at long goodbyes”,
then the weather says it’s snowing like November.
Blue northers come down (blowing) from Montana –
blue wind that settles snow along the fences.
Seasons come and go, but not the end of winter.
Drifts swell like sails and fences lean into their camber
Barbed wire is stitched into the snow between our ranches.
March settles in, but the weather means December.
The barn lights make four yellow pools that glow (like embers
on the frozen snow all night). The back door is your answer
when it opens to the sudden arms of winter.
There’s been snow out on the prairie since September.
For The Galway Review 13, Printed Edition, April 2025
The Galway Review 