march, too, this year was nervy, making all
it could of winter’s costume, flaunting snow
and sleet, slapping our stiffening cheeks cold
and red, wearing white well past when it’s called
for, leaving the tree limbs smooth, the buds stalled
deep in their dreams, a too-static tableau,
everything with liquid in its veins so
damn-near frozen, spring slowed down to a crawl.
still, hope springs, we drink in every season,
and people take root, sprout, and blossom in
the capitol greens and the public squares
in cities near and far. call it treason,
if you will. i call it nature, human,
to forge an april from the heat of our desires.