❧ March Quarrel ❧
Our sooner wishes touch us.
What we had meant to say
finds rough weather,
caught like trash on the clothesline--
kept there by an insistent wind,
making noise without purpose.
Today, spring heaves cracks in the soil,
lines them with rime.
It's all just cold sunny birds,
backwards crocus hope.
All just a day in a season
in a change in a year.
All things pass, dear.