March is a Surly Old Cat

Dusk falls quickly this early March day,

winter not ready to cede to spring;

another nor’easter’s heading our way…

anticipation—bordering aggravation—

as we wait to see what this storm will bring.

And so the flurries begin to fall

floating…swirling…giving chase—

racing over hedges and open lawn,

settling on treetops and old stone wall,

the wind picks up and quickens pace.

We set aside our mixed emotions

awed by wonder that we see:

nature has waved a magic wand

passing her paintbrush in slow motion

over the crooks of twigs and limbs

as pure white crystals settle in

to cloak the bald and barren tree.

A fine sift of confectioner’s sugar

powder-coats all within our sight;

soft pussy willows bend under the weight

while new spring birds have taken flight.

And so it builds—flake on flake

layer upon layer— drifting down;

frozen, heavy, muting sound.

The first signs of spring beat a hasty retreat

as March Lion rears its head and roars,

and plows come out to scrape the  street.

Inside we listen as they make their rounds,

and under this mantle of new-fallen white

we knit our poems on this cold March night.

© Ginny Brannan March 2018

Image: G. Brannan 3/8/18