IDES OF FARCH

By Nancy Wayman Deutsch

Is it February, or is it March?

In Florida, it's hard to tell.

Neither Spring nor Winter

a time between Jingle Bells and colored eggs

mind scape of scarlet hearts and roses

morphing into shamrocks and green beer.

Mother nature misbehaving, yet again

such an indecisive coy, calendar girl

changing her agenda from one day to the next

here and there, her azaleas blushing in pink profusion

while brittle branched oaks shiver in the wind.

My lawn is clothed in cocoa and verdant green

Old Sol playing peek a boo with steely clouds

scowling gray at patch worked earth below.

Have the robins come and gone unnoticed

before drifting yellow pollen blankets all in sight?

Cocooned with book and candle,

I wait to be an April fool

longing for steamy sultry days and golden sunsets

my bare toes digging into damp beachy sand

the raucous calling of gulls filling azure sky above.