March comes, a sort of intersession, winter's wonderlandishness acquiescing, spring yet undominant. But the trends are evidential.
The incredible, indubitable, indisputable mystery, life's history, in renaissance. Twig-twirling, bud-curling flora recommence their reproductive cycles. Birds are winging, children singing, men malingering. Chlorophyll fills the hill. Gauzy moths froth their troths. Saps stir.
It is a meaningful experience, with its special ways and means that are constant through the years. Clocks and calendars plot out their arbitrary separations, as the womb and the tomb surge on unheeding. When o when? man asks, never knowing, ever sowing. But to hatch a bird he must start with an egg, which contains its own inflexible schedule. See man count.
March arrives not unlamblike and juice quickens, ubiquitously. In the highlands, in the islands, lullabylands, litter and debris rustle gently. Water begins to flow. Sinks come unclogged. There is dancing on the hills. Dark stillness thwarts the pulsing shmulsing, but soon enough another dawn spreads her rosy fingers out against the frozen ozone.
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