by Greg Hill
March and Poetry
Not too many people want to write poetically about March.
There is the weather simile about a lion and a lamb,
but that doesn’t always ring true,
and it doesn’t say much. Eliot noted the cruelty of April,
which is Poetry Month, incidentally, and Shakespeare
has that whole thing about the darling buds of May.
On the other end, February is smothered
by sappy and trite poetry for Saint Valentine,
plus a handful of dire odes to the dark knells of late winter.
March, a neutral zone between seasons,
has nothing terribly poetic going for it.
Its most significant holiday,
now reduced to bargoers’ annual excuse
for drinking Guinness and claiming
a grandparent from County Cork,
is little more than a recognition
of the generally agreed upon fifth century date
some Christian missionary from England
died. Yesterday’s dry warmth tickled of June. This morning,
the gray skies are spilling cold depression onto the thawing earth,
converting bicycle tracks into mud troughs.
Today is a day to catch up on sleep, a day
to curl under a stained blanket, put off the laundry, definitely
a day to write no poetry whatsoever.
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Greg Hill is a writer and voice over talent in West Hartford, Connecticut, and has an MFA from Vermont of College of Fine Arts. His works have appeared in Whiskey Island, Cheap Pop, Atlas and Alice, Queen Mob’s Teahouse and elsewhere. In the evenings, he composes little tunes for his daughters, who are too young to know how poorly their father plays the piano.