March

By Carol Keene

March does not march,
As one would expect.
It's the month that saunters.
March takes her sweet time.
She meanders... dilly-dallies.
She pages through her days
With indecision, often favoring
Shades of gray,
Or blowing entirely white again,
Like January.
Oh, she’ll try on a couple of
Sunny, warm days,
But March finds comfort
In melancholy.
She isn’t about to rush
Into anything as flashy as April.