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
[unpublished]
BARB'S PEN 