March

The sun is hotter than the top ledge in a steam bath;
The ravine, crazed, is rampaging below.
Spring that corn-fed, husky milkmaid
Is busy at her chores with never a letup.

The snow is wasting (pernicious anemia
See those branching veinlets of impotent blue?)
Yet in the cowbarn life is burbling, steaming,
And the tines of pitchforks simply glow with health.

These days these days, and these nights also!
With eavesdrop thrumming its tattoos at noon,
With icicles (cachectic!) hanging on to gables,
And with the chattering of rills that never sleep!

All doors are flung open in stable and in cowbarn;
Pigeons peck at oats fallen in the snow;
And the culprit of all this and its life-begetter
The pile of manure is pungent with ozone.

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