Marching Through March

NOT do I remember the lyrical poems and Renoir paintings that sang of the beauty of March. Cold wet and muddy to the cadence of a funeral dirge I march along the road to April. Passing a slimy pond Pisces the fish greets me with a flick of his tail, the murky water dripping from my soggy coat. The sound of crashing horns! My head jerks around to see Aries the ram butting heads with a rival. Is March the bleakest month of the year? But how can this be when March is the month when Johann Sebastian Bach was born and the whole world is green on Saint Patty’s Day. Now, NOW I feel a gentle breeze with floating fragrance of lilac shrub, for just around the corner is SPRING.