Mid-March
It is too early for white boughs, too late
For snows. From out the hedge the wind lets fall
A few last flakes, ragged and delicate.
Down the stripped roads the maples start their small,
Soft, ’wildering fires. Stained are the meadow stalks
A rich and deepening red. The willow tree
Is woolly. In deserted garden-walks
The lean bush crouching hints old royalty,
Feels some June stir in the sharp air and knows
Soon ’twill leap up and show the world a rose.
The days go out with shouting; nights are loud;
Wild, warring shapes the wood lifts in the cold;
The moon’s a sword of keen, barbaric gold,
Plunged to the hilt into a pitch black cloud.
This poem is a perfect description of what March is! Its the awkward in-between month; moved on from winter, but still not spring. Personally, I think its a tricky month. One day it will be warm and everyone gets summer fever, then the next it's cold again! The first line is perfect depict this. Then as she talks about the garden, and a hint of life sparking into the plants, just waiting to spring into full bloom. We look around and see hints of this all the time.
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