A Poem- for March

Because green lives past the metaphors,
and the dress on a caryatid whorls once
only when falling ruinous, this language
denotes widely through merging rivulets

when about reeds and dancing plants, alive
while the center of all that’s settled smokes
with winter’s dead brush, light and the same
of a music from born breath easily unsettled,

as drawn branches aren’t to support gray sky
but wait dormant until a series of rains from
the heavily sheeted to an atmospheric mist
drape longer days later burned in the sun.