MARCH

Caught, kite-like,
upon late Winter's trees,
black and barren,
the wind hangs,
wrapped in whispers,
'round the antlers of the forest.

Beside you, I tremble
beneath the jagged sky,
watching ancient oak leaves wing earthward
in repose,
blown brown
then stirred to dust,
giving way to Tomorrow's
Summer's green shade.

            ~ Bud Evans (c) 2000 ~