March's version of spring was no lion
and it was no lamb.
It was a hybrid,
a beast with great slapping paws
dressed in heavy boots
so you could hear it coming up the stairs.
It flung open the doors,
threw back its head and bellowed,
Then it settled down for a nap
under blue and soft white,
just the sky a beast would request for napping
if it could.
It breathed slow and steady as it rested,
and its fur, all green grass and pink buds,
rippled with the warm breeze.
Every day this happened,
and I worried the surprise beast
would up and run.
And now it has,
taking its careless panting and clunky shoes