March

Winter, dirty white, still foaming at the mouth,

pleading, begging for sweet release.

March winds bring splintered hope,

shattered on blustery days leftover

from the old man's icy grip.

Beat brown grasses, bent and smashed

to frozen aching earth, bowing down,

defeated by the smothering weight of snow.

Almost one year old and making

way for bright, breathing shoots of renewal.

No ceremony for last year’s growth,

We cast a baleful eye at its leftovers,

willing the moment of Spring to be now.