The pale shoot sprouts and waits beneath the dirt
Moody March pouts, sashays and seethes and flirts
The azure thirst of spring’s impending bliss
Must suffer first, winter’s keen, farewell kiss
Maidens with frocks of apple-blossom pink
Prance restlessly beyond earth’s umbral brink
Cloud-billows pregnant with blustering sham
Will scatter soon like wooly, wand’ring lambs
While winter’s ice and snow-sparkle melee
Melts into a dear, distant memory
Ah, ides of March, should we a tomb prepare?
And tremble? Is there sorrow in the air?
Nay, who can scorn the hour of your wrath
Leading to hyacinth and lily-path?
What is will be, but this one thing is sure
No winter can Spring’s serenade endure
And from her pristine pastures in the sky
She winks and captures Old Man Winter’s eye
He grumbles but cannot contain the glow
Of golden sunbeams blushing on the snow
His portly foreboding cannot resist
The fantasy of being softly kissed
And though with mustered will he fumes and frets
Her whisper flusters his well-designed threats
Beckoning him to 'come, lay in her lap
For surely he could use a long, long nap'
What is the use? Love’s longing pays no heed
To reputation in the hour of need
He pauses, taken by her winsome smile
He’ll rest; but only for a little while…
© Janet Martin