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.