Marching

the winds rush by in March
it’s the busy season of breezes
a long list of doing-things; thankless
here arrives the lumbering, horse-drawn
cartwind carrying pioneers of precipitation
from the western spacious skies
delivering the deluge of Mississippi swelling
our American Nile; unfull of crocodiles

Turn your face to the South
there’s the lady of gulfbirthed warmth
gently she strokes the teeming blue
her touch is like your mother’s hands
making pain fade instantly; hear that?
her sigh is silken unhurried honey
But have a care for her summer raging
a temper-tempested sunlit sociopathy

From the north there’s an icy import
like weather-whiskey, this one is bearded
with the hoarfrost of the millenia
our dear March beats back his short forays
go take your mountained rest, old man
enjoy your arctic dotage for a season
your labours begin in earnest again soon
For you to force the lady of the land to sleep

The news-bringer, the wild-eyed eastern galewoman, lashing all within her reach
with the salted tears of undersea shipyards
her collection of silent bones sing dirges
the music of the melancholy spirit
unheard but not unnoticed in the sand
inhabited by her scaled and shelled subjects
her gaze is westward bright, coldblooded