It's Still Life

March is a mad hare in a fit. Wild, bounding, all elbows and interruptions. He sits in the sun until he remembers he prefers frost, then leaps up and overturns the day. “Change places!” he cries, though no one is sitting where they were to begin with. He pours tea into the wind, scolds the daffodils for bowing too soon, then freezes them where they stand as punishment for agreeing. Sit down—no, stand—no, grow—no, sleep. He warms your hands and steals the warmth back again, just to see if you were paying attention. Nothing stays decided. Not the sky. Not the hour. Not even what just happened.

March sun, then cold rain,
daffodils bow into frost,
tulips thin as glass.