March

The twigs of March drip, and dangle ~ late in the day birdsong returns. New veins leach in the leaf there are florets of sap-sweet offerings. From oracle rings earth worms rise up from a mud, then wade-in to wet nurse the soil. For the young, this is a time for naked toes and muddy faces. For the younger, the land suckles with its bare hands. The old watch the seep, hear the suck of a million open mouths beneath the leak of muddling mists. New birthed lambs bleat to be fed, be strengthened against returning lions. March is kind only for a spell, for who can tell? There are rumors of dragons in coming winds. For now, young shoots struggle forth there is a quickening reach, a tufted greening. Dens and drays are fat with new birthed cubs that play and mew in Marches bustle uplifted now in a mucky coddle.