By: Heather Nanni
March, you roar in like a lion and punch me in the gut.
Yours is a month of cruel contradictions.
The sun, it sits low in the sky and glares harshly enough to burn the eyes.
Yet, it does not produce enough heat to thaw those things
those things so desperately in need of warmth.
The brown, lifeless grass reveals itself through piles of dirt-stained snow
an elusive promise of new life trapped beneath dead blades.
You rule with false promise and deception.
During your reign, the white mounds of winter
once burdensome, yet magical
leaving us with the sad, stark truth of what really lies beneath.