During March,
drizzle melts winter
into dewy mildness. It is also
deviously muddy.
In dawn's mist, druids murmur
magical divinations.
A dazzling meteor darts
momentarily
across the distant moon.
During March, death moans like
the devil's mandolin, playing
mournful dirges, defiantly mysterious.
But darling, meanwhile,
don't mind this dramatic
monologue. None of this matters
in Des Moines,
during March.