The Marching Of February Poem by Jim Young

The North wind's dirty duster
smears a bilious brassy sun,
waning any meager warmth,
on this sallow porridge day.
The shrubs shrug, not speaking.
Ask of the weather's revolving door,
brass handles flashing,
dark interior clacking,
will you roulette us golden chips,
or sink our sailing ships,
a-storm on the municipal pool?

Snapping the string of a bitter winter,
the pearls of hail spill down the stares
of that self-same sassy sun.
The winter man of the east spits "relent",
and with his last explosive gasp
sets the hackles of the hares on end,
jerking them flail boxing red
over the heather buds
bursting in their sap.
With wild eyes flaring
they are off somersaulting,
a madness born of the March winds,
screeching high upon the hill.