The Lion of March

Wind-moles have tunneled through the daffodil rings, stems are uprooted or fractured, Yellow bells and trumpets fly in a tumbling sky. The third month is a despoiler, it scatters and stomps fiercely upon the newly arrived. Roofs are launched to flap away on broken wings. Yet the strong survive until the lion yawns temporarily bored with its play. Like any cat, it yawns and sleeps while the sky washes it face. If the new risen shoots persist, if the tender buds escape all runaway winds if our lives can be nailed down, only then will the lion of March at last lay down with its lambs, but only to guard them from its own rage and hungers.