March Makeover

A metamorphosis of sorts.

Virtually unknown until I roared;
then something happened
to rescue me from obscurity.

I am March, born of February’s
snowy gatherings, her
sheets of sleet and lasting cold,
yet I merely scraped eaves
and suffered from a shyness
unbeknownst to other months.
Then, in my mind,
when sleep grew scarce,
I did as Walter Mitty did
and wore myself a lion’s face,
and felt my low ebb like the tide.

I summoned some authority,
and bellowed loud
as February found a berth
to sleep away another year...
yet still I harbored guilt for roar,
and desperation clutched my heart
as even Ides within me reigned...

...I am grieving borderland--
a commentary to each spring,
so if I roar, do I stifle growth?
Do I hinder spaciousness
of precious seed
and verdant wannabes?
Spring should spill her radiance
as if all colors were a right,
as if all shades were paramount,
as if wee beetles in the thick
find time to savor every hue.
I have the time to look beyond
the ego of my roar,
and let my lion's roar abate
as I, at last, become a lamb.


36 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
2-28-15