March is headstong, uncontrolled,
Temperamental, dashing, bold.
Exuberant, and never still,
March comes whooping down the hill;
She sweeps away, and then returns
And tempts and heckles us by turns.
Full of verv, and tilled with daring,
She’s recklessness beyond all caring.
A month we freely criticize,
She casts no look at Beauty’s prize,
But, wild hair blowing in her eyes,
She is confidence–this vernal sprinter
Has to be, to conquer winter!
by Ray Romine Tuesday, March 8, 1949
