Will Spring ever come?

( I’ve decided I want to post more frequently, and use some of the short pieces  I’ve never published. They are not necessarily in chronological order, so if I’m talking about fall and it’s spring outside, I’m not crazy, just lost in the time space continuum.)

March

March used to be a kinder lover.

Tho often sad, with steady tears flowing down her muddy cheeks.

She was always a moody mistress.

But now she’s grown cold and quiet.

Intent on burying me deep in a frost encrusted tomb.

The snow covered Pines hold their secrets close, and the white is waist-deep in the swamps.

Road ditches hide their treachery beneath her  flowing skirts.

I cannot begin to imagine boyhood dreams of fishing poles and songbirds.

Or an April that flirts with Summer.

Beneath this wet blanket I battle, and March only mocks me with frigid nights and dreary days.

For such a young thing, she feels old and cold.

Kinder once, she was, with breath wet and warm.

But her lips have frozen hard, their lightest touch sending shivers down my back.

And I can no longer love her ice cold heart.

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Rachel Svendsen

Reading. Writing. Me.

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