As March marches onwards with
its cocksure pure surefootedness,
we kick back in slapdash abandon
at spring's kick-start, quick-lap switchback.
The abhorred slow crawl of snowfall
that palled all this woeful winter
simply splinters into sharp shards
when hit with glittering springtime.
First buds burst, birds' versed calls
soar, heard outstretching
the frost-locked dawn of morning
yawning itself rudely awake
but the plodding joggers pound
their ground-bound down-town rounds
drowned deep within the sound
of dread-drone, dead-tone headphones,
so, in their darkened worlds, they miss
the fleeting kiss of surging spring,
its urgent pressure pushing leaf and bush
in the first flush of day-brink's rose-pink dawning.
Saturday, March 13, 2021
Topic(s) of this poem: march,spring