March left like a lion.

 

The following poem was written for the first day of March, in a previous year when the month entered like a lion. This year March's arrival was lamb-like so I did not post my poem. In fact, I was so hopeful that spring had fully arrived that I stashed my winter clothes and put away the flannel sheets.

But yesterday, the final day of March, I had to pull some winter clothing out of winter storage because I was going to be participating in an evening outdoor rally with the temperature approaching freezing. The event was moved indoors but not before I was caught in a brief blast of sleet and snow that called up thoughts of a blizzard.

This picture is not of that event. The white stuff melted immediately when it hit the ground, but this stock image does illustrate the frequent incongruity of March weather in Missouri. The poem is the result of experimentation with line breaks and spacing.

March

No measured tread, no orderly procession,

                                     but still a stomp 

                    of storm and blizzard ushers in this third month.

The very word holds no promise 

                                           of gentle spring, no expectation 

of tiptoeing in 

               with lamb-like quiet and warming breeze.

Troop, tread, tramp...In the slog of uncertainty, 

                                                               we consider our calendars.

Should we prepare the camper for its first weekend away

or stack the woodpile in anticipation of snow?

But today is just today. Stomp or scurry, tiptoe or tramp, lion or lamb,

the days are not ours to direct. Welcome 

                                                           the gaping maw of lion and the bleat of lamb. 

Green grass peeks through snow.