March

Like a cross old lion with a grumpy roar,

March came whistling and screeching at our door,

Rattling the eaves and puffing with glee.

“Come on out,” he called, “and play with me.”

We stood at the windows and watched the trees

That twisted and turned in his blustery breeze.

But when March, lamblike, came frolicking by,

We ran to greet him—he tossed our kites high.