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.