Stephen Cushman
POEMS
 

March


It's true you're no beauty,
splotchy complexion, not much hair,
and your greatest achievement, an equinox,
barely breaks even when you're two-thirds through.
Yes, a few daffodils, but it's also true
your moodiness gets tiresome,
one day the bluebirds going berserk
with amorous gurgling aroused by your warmth,
the next a cold shoulder, ice on the birdbath,
all desire dead. Your name suggests
aggressive designs, maybe a strategy,
in these sudden fluctuations;
yet notwithstanding the frost-stunned forsythia,
you name's a misnomer for the month that means
steady improvement and annually moves
from worse to bad, bad to better,
going the way not everything does.
.