March
The sun is nervous as a kite,
that can't quite keep it's own string tight.
Some days are fair and some are raw.
The timid earth decides to thaw.
Shy budlets peep from twigs on trees,
and robins join the chickadees.
Pale crocuses poke through the ground,
like noses come to sniff around.
The mud smells happy on our shoes.
We still wear mittens which we lose.
Poem by John Updike
