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.