I love spring most in the early days of March
when warm weather teases, scoffing at
the ground hog that forecast six more weeks.
I steal daffodils from lawns of strangers
and the flower bed of banks and strip malls.
I haul my coats and sweaters, woolens, boots
to the basement closet, tempted by sleeveless
tops and dresses, by swimsuits and sandals.
 
I force myself to wait to plant my annuals.
I wander through the lawn and garden section
like a shopping addict—Big Boys, Kirby cukes,
green peppers, even tender leaf lettuce—
knowing the likelihood of another freeze.
 
Snow on forsythia makes a lovely photograph
but bed sheets protecting my rose bushes
from frost have less charm. Mid-March,
I count back, trying to recall if she came in
like a lion or like a lamb, discounting
superstitions that point to more winter.
 
How can one month—even a long one—
serve as a sampler for all four seasons,
a meteorological smorgasbord? Taunting,
March teases, tests to see how much
I can take without casting longing eyes
toward April.

© by Nancy Posey.
Used with the author's permission.