Every month has its sun —

March’s lies.

It glows early like a robin’s morning,

yet the wind slices cruelly.

It gleams on the river as if seen from sailboats

and warms bare pavement awaiting marbles,

yet the missing green

is freezing still.

I have no quarrel with the cold steel

of January’s sun

or the steam oven of July’s.

But I’ll never again believe

in March’s lies.



© Barbara Burt