March Stew

Mornings are littered with gnawed husks, charred mouse-tails. March is burning its strew. The limbless braid a thawing earth into knotty threads. On wet lines flannel shirts poach in a warming smaze. while gust-hogs still attack the hedgerows. In coddled kitchens muggy boiled cabbages envelope a pottage of sky. Stubby snuffles herald undertows of new marrow. April paddles in with wet crumbs and buttercups.