March was marching by a marsh

In a cloak of red and white.

Frost was spread under his feet

And yet the sun shone overhead

His rays of gold too weak

To wake the earth below.


Still March was marching

With a jaunty spring,

Coaxing crocuses to rise

And snowdrops pale and

Singing violas and so many

More spreading a carpet in his wake.


January sighed and February grumbled

At their younger brother’s whimsy.

April shifted and May twitched

Eager for their time to arrive.

“Back, in the good old days,” they said,

“You had less days to go.”


March doesn’t care as he marches along,

Playing a merry tune of frosty wings,

Singing of flowers and of the first fine days.

He stands at the threshold of winter and spring

And no matter how the world complains

He’ll give us the boons of both up until

All Fool’s Day.

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