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.