March Idle

March is the windy month

when hair whips about

and hats take their leave

when snow melts into puddles

freeze into ice in the sun

when coats turn to jackets

a little too soon

March is the edge of spring

the intoxicating scent of the snow

pulling back into pockets of shade

before the smell of vibrant green

puts us all out of our senses

as icicles drip to nothing in the sunlight

March is the dappled month

flecked with mud and ice and

the first miraculous crocuses

unfurl from beneath the wet

ground and earth one

half frozen half molten

yet those first delicate blossoms thrive

bolder than cultivated blooms

March is the time of contradictions

greys as the slush and mud meld

slinking away to hide in shadowed corners

glowing petals illuminated like glass

red, pink, purple against the grey

still too cold, already too warm

raining most when you forget an umbrella

March is... a breath

breathed from enormous lungs

ever so gently, just warm enough

to bring back to life

the cold-stiffened huddles of winter

a time for a breath, to breathe

to bask in the sun with a book

get mud on your shoes

March is when the adventures thaw

frozen all winter, postponed, hibernating

surviving on scraps of promised sunshine

bursting gloriously into view

the sky is clear blue, or cloud-scoured

the creeks thawed, or nearly

the day shining or petulant

but the air invigorated

alive with what is to come