Praise for March (published in Huntingdon College literary magazine)

March is a month unto itself.
Maims the skittery pigeon's brain
And buckles Robin's red breast.
It is an acid test for flaws in phlox
And sets standards too chilled for spring.
Puffs its whiskey breath into cordials
Like April or May
Lifting their dainty skirts in terror
Or turning up their azure noses.

March is the gruff old troll.
Tenacious as the ghost of winter.
A savage giving sages lumbago
Or death pretending aphrodisiac
To spinster days.
It walks defunct parks
Like littered paper wrappings
And swirls, whirls its travelers
Into oblivion.

And then, remorselessly, it is gone.