Worm Moon

March swells its potential, looms

its first full moon in perigee - a frosty stare

in the night sky to its blooms of magnolia

in violet dawns. It raises the worms

from loam, a writhe of segmented bodies

that contract in waves to surface 

and exposure - this earth brings out its dead,

risen as fodder for Spring.

March: it brawls its thugs of wind and wet 

and damp fields of hare-fuelled commotions,

new wars of embattled lovers, restless

in a return of greens and yellows

that whisper winter to sleep

for those sweet lambs - their delight 

and innocence I swear I knew too once,

and March, then, shrinks away, apologetic 

at last, with the tiptoed distance

of the worm moon. 
 

Image from pixabay.