“Forced March”
Old Spring awakes in all her glorious squalor.
Great mounds of dirty snow
Weigh down her spongy soil
Littered with broken twigs and animal droppings.
Fog, dank and chill, obscures both ground and mountains
As ice rots on the lakes
And limp grass sprawls
And water seeps and flows in streets and sewers.
“Equinox? Now?” she groans, recalling with a wince
October’s drunken red and orange riot
“Just look at all that slithery mud.
Why me to clean it up? Those noisy birds can do it.
I’ll sleep another week or two. It’s only March.
Some extra rest will make me April lovely.”
-Judith Dow Moore
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