The bitter March wind threatens still
To chase a snow-storm down the hill,
To freeze the river, freshly thawed,
And keep us faintly overawed.
But Pooh, March wind! For I have waited
Too long to be intimated,*
So blow your worst. However rough
You are, you fake, I call your bluff;
I eye askance; my eyebrows arch–
For spring is near any day in March!
*intimidated?
by Ray Romine Thursday, December 11, 1952
