March

March

never aims to please;

is never one for sentimentality
or prim and proper subtleties.
Biting paradox is her specialty
whene'er her whim is to be ornery
and a trail of vexed casualties
can always be found in graves or on knees.
A day of sun!—warm, balmy skies—
     the next, a cold, harsh freeze
to sting your very eyes.
Then allergies,
make one sniffle and sneeze,
to make one run and then to wheeze—
and she laughs at all her falsities.
We forgive her when she coaxes
     blossoms onto trees,
recalling how Spring
     always wins in spite of her complexities,
and curse her yet again
     for all the grievances we see
when she'll caress the trees with sympathy
only to bully and crow obscenities.
She'll drive us to perplexities,
she'll mock, berate, taunt, and tease,

but March

never

aimed to please.