photo - Carolyn Hoggard
WINDS OF MARCH
by Eileen Branson, from the book, Who Tells the Crocuses It's Spring? compiled by P. P. Johnson
The wind leapfrogs and somersaults,
And then slides down
A winter-polished hill of white;
Tickles a tree, then recklessly vaults
To waken a sleeping town
By helping dawn push away the night.
Oh, such a wind as this will bring
A rush of tiny miracles called Spring.
by Emily Dickinson, from Dover Thrift Editions' Selected Poems
We like March, his shoes are purple,
He is new and high;
Makes he mud for dog and peddler,
Makes he forest dry;
Knows the adder's tongue his coming,
And begets her spot.
Stands the sun so close and mighty
That our minds are hot.
News is he of all the others;
Bold it were to die
With the blue-birds buccaneering
On his British sky."
by P. Laster,
playing tag with my ball cap
--- published in Piedmont Literary Review, 1994
standing in awe before
the ice-rimmed spring
--- published on the Electronic Poetry Network, Shreveport library, early 2000
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