March

wind-moles have tunneled through the daffodil rings stems are broken yellow bells and trumpets fly in a mute sky the third month is a wayward despoiler it stomps on the newly come the strong survive and persist until the lion yawns temporarily bored with its play one fine day mild doe-eyed visitors meander among cotton wool clouds the lion dreams in his sleep the next day arrives as his nightmare here in the havens it is a time for tornados the earth is burgeoning greening so tenderly a perilous time if the new born shoots if the new birthed and cradled escape all the runaway winds the lion my at last lay down with the lambs to guard them from its own hungers

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