March bleeds me like the mud puddles 
of water color palettes 
between fifth graders who
try to make flowers that don't look like pinwheels-- 
soaking up mucky-lilacs 
with brown paper towels.
quaking cold-- pinwheel hair out station wagon windows 
I decided that I could stop 
wearing scarves long enough 
to feel the must of daffodil breath on my brow.
A screenless open window.
The older I get the more I realize
that Spring is as much of a beginning
as Fall is an end-- I'm not the
girl who rubbed April from her
eyes last year-- wore snow boots
and ate cheerios from plastic baggies.
Grass grows like the hair on my
ear lobes. Like moss on my heels.
Humans have always found something
in the rain-- only to realize we 
don't need to be washed to be reborn--
we made a symbol so we could pretend
we knew that we were changing.
And then it was summer.
And then we were humid.
And then we were cold.