‘Tis a time of uncertainties,

a month poised expectantly

between winter and spring,

unsure of itself. Trying to decide,

shall I snow? shall I blow?

shall I bestow the kindness of

more sun and warmth or shall I

bluster and refuse to offer hope?


March is a time of life,

not youth and not old age,

dangling between past and future.

It is a time of uncertainty,

the spirit tightly clinging

to youth, the body fearing age.

I have anticipation of better

days to come and yet the

Marches of my past tell me

it may not be so.


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