Uploaded on March 31, 2012
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.
—Emily Dickinson
Collected Poems
03.31.2024: Those must have been my neighbor’s crocuses. His are blooming now.