The Third Month

The winter hangs on me like an old coat
on a scarecrow in the corn field.
The snow is filthy. It lies in piles,
looks like a mixture of sugar and dirt.
The song birds are still away,
but the geese are ready to lay.
I am tired of my winter clothes. I want
to shed them the way that a garden snake
sheds its old, dried out skin.
I am tired of feeling the cold, the drafts.
I want to open doors and windows
and not have them be there to sting me.
I am tired of gray skies and drab clouds.
I want them clean and clear and azure.

If only I knew magic or voodoo
and were able to summon the seasons,
I would call upon the spring, call
for a rush of warm winds
and cumulous clouds, with a vivid sun
to break through and beam.
I would stretch out on the grass and bathe
in the light and the warmth all day,
nap, think, day dream, listen
to the song of the warblers and finches,
the mocking birds and the cardinals
and simply let my mind wander away.

It is March now, and I am more than ready.