March
By Don Iannone

March winds howl without mercy.
Their wolf-like lungs ache--
inhaling bitter February air
not quite ready
to give over to April showers.
So we have March--
the in-between, go-between time
when kites either soar high
or fall abruptly
to the hard frozen ground below.
March winds cry--
into the night;
long past any hour of return.
Their voices drown out
winter's rebellious roar,
and spring's magical chant
that eventually coaxes early snow drops
to lift their frail heads
through still hard earth, and then
find the distant sun's white rays
that will grow strong enough
to still March's howl,
and steady spring's unpredictable dance
into the yellowing sun of summer.