As I look out my window
at the falling, drifting snow,
some vestigial ice,
I know no matter
how fierce the wind blows
how loud the Lion—
March melts
When the King of Beasts cuffs
aside Cupid’s winter arrows of love
roars that Janus month into being
ignorant of the lamb he will lie near
when fully blown—
March melts.
When fierce storms pretend
Spring is just a young man's fancy
or the stuff of poems
and winter covers the ground
as if a death blanket
Earth wrapped in forever—
March melts.
In Spring the buds
turn over in their beds
shut out the storm noise
cuddle with the Lamb
believe that—
March melts.
Fish stir beneath the tumult
I string my poles
ice fishing in the rear mirror
blue sparkling lakes ahead—
March melts.
Originally published in Poets' Espresso Review